From Wardens to Royalty
by daydreamsonacloudyday
Summary: Various oneshots/drabbles about my Warden, Isabel Cousland, and Alistair.
1. Fifteen Kisses

**Fifteen Kisses**

* * *

_Lips_

He hesitated for just a moment before their mouths had met, his breath grazing over her lips, sending a shiver down her spine. When he finally kissed her it was tentative and wary, and over far too quickly for her liking… but it was still wonderful. She was overwhelmed with that thrilling feeling one got when they kissed their crush for the very first time, her heart beating so loud she that she was sure he could hear it. Their second kiss couldn't come soon enough.

* * *

_Forehead_

She always had the stupidest grin on her face after he kissed her forehead. It was just a simple touch of his lips to her head, but she would always smile like a fool afterwards. He was the first man to ever do such a thing, and it always made her giddy. There had never been any affection between her and her previous suitors, just their mutual desire to have fun, and his simple act of tenderness and care warmed her heart. So she beamed broadly and enjoyed each and every one.

* * *

_Cheek_

He was enjoying a simple conversation with Wynne, when he registered movement out of the corner of his eye. Before he could turn his head to investigate, a pair of familiar lips planted a kiss right on his cheek, the owner of those lips sauntering away as quickly as she had arrived. His fellow Warden shot him a sultry look over her shoulder, and he swallowed hard, feeling his cheeks start to burn. The old mage beside him watched the exchange with a raised eyebrow, only making him blush more. His little minx disappeared into her—no, _their—_tent, and he quickly excused himself before scurrying after her, no doubt falling right into whatever devious plan she cooked up. The woman was absolutely _maddening_, but he couldn't deny her a thing.

* * *

_Nose_

He hated being compared to his brother. He especially hated it when anyone pointed out their almost uncanny resemblance. Those were the times when she pointed out the differences between the two men, physically and otherwise, reassuring him that he wasn't his brother. That in time the people of Ferelden would come to see him as his own man. That they'd see him as she did—honorable, loyal, and a good king. She joked that the only thing he and his brother had in common was their nose, the same nose their father passed down to them. He rolled his eyes and she kissed that royal nose, nuzzling and kissing his face until she made him smile.

* * *

_Back of Hand_

Some nights they were so exhausted that it was all they could do to get themselves to bed. As much as they welcomed sleep, they also feared it, lying in silence while they waited for the inevitable nightmares it would bring. The sleeping draught Wynne made for them helped a bit, but her nightmares were still much worse than his. More often than not she jerked awake, frightened and in tears, her family and the archdemon haunting her dreams. He took her hand in his and brought it up to his mouth, pressing a tender kiss to the back of her hand, meeting her gaze in the dimmed light of their tent. The tiniest of thankful smiles graced her lips, and he knew she understood his silent declaration that he'd be there for her when she awoke. As long as he lived, he'd be there for her, as she was for him.

* * *

_Fingertips_

They'd taken to holding hands while they kept watch at night. She never bothered to hold hands with anyone before, and she marveled over the way he would play with her hands. He traced his fingers over her hers and her palms, also pressing little kisses to her fingertips. He always seemed so content to do so, so she let him, satisfied to simply enjoy the contact between the two of them. One day, _she_ ran _her_ fingers over his hands, tracing the lines of his palms and the calluses from years of swordsmanship. _She_ kissed each of his fingertips, and he stared at her with an adoring smile on his handsome face. She finally understood why he'd always been so content to play with her hands.

* * *

_Collarbone_

It was an accident that he even did it in the first place. They snuck away from camp for some time alone, time they spent lip-locked in each other's arms. He had no idea what he was really doing, he just wanted to hear that little sigh she made when he started to kiss her neck, because then he knew she was enjoying herself. He pressed his lips to the skin just below her jaw and was rewarded with that marvelous sound. Spurred on by her reaction, he let his lips travel lower, until he was pressing a tender kiss to her collarbone. She dug her fingernails into his skin and let out a breathy moan, the sound sending tingles down his spine when he realized she'd said _his name _like that. Now that, _that_, was a sound he was determined to hear again.

* * *

_Shoulder_

Getting the king to agree to brush her hair was one of the most worthwhile things she'd ever done. It became a ritual for them; no matter what was going on in the palace, he would take the time to wrestle the tangles from her unruly hair. She sat in front of him with her eyes closed and a smile on her face, enjoying the sensations of the brush bristles and his fingertips ghosting over her scalp and back. When he finished, he gathered her raven waves and placed them over one shoulder, bringing his lips down to her other. He pressed a gentle and affectionate kiss to her shoulder and whispered words of love in her ear. She returned them, and they enjoyed their last few moments of peace together before returning to the outside world.

* * *

_Spine_

_Maker_, she looked wonderful in dresses, but the damned things were _impossible_ to get off in a timely fashion. The back laces were always an awful nuisance, and he was always tempted to just cut right through them until he finally got them open. He peeled the dress off her torso, releasing it past her hips, the offending fabric pooling at her feet. Before she could step out of it, he grabbed her hips and held her still as he slowly and intently kissed up her spine, each press of his lips making her gasp and arch her back. When he reached her neck, he lightly nibbled on her skin, and she let out a content sigh before turning around and setting her sights on undressing _him_.

* * *

_Throat_

He wasn't so sure the king and queen fornicating in a _storage closet_ was the best idea, but he wasn't about to protest. Not when she gave him _that look_, the one that still did funny things to him. She all but shoved him into the closet and slammed the door behind them, her lips immediately claiming his in a passionate kiss. She'd started kissing down the column of his throat when the door suddenly opened, a startled servant gasping at the entangled rulers. She pulled back and flashed him a devious grin, and he blushed, heat creeping into his cheeks. The storage closet was a _horrible_ idea.

* * *

_Stomach_

She swore he loved her stomach more than he loved her. He was constantly fawning over her baby bump while she would lay back and watch with an amused smile. He spoke to their unborn child, an excited spark in his amber eyes as he told the growing baby of all that was in store for him or her when they came into the world. He peppered her belly with kisses, murmuring words of love to both her and the child. He rested his head on her stomach while she combed her fingers through his hair, and he bared his heart to them. He expressed his fears that _something_ would go wrong during the pregnancy, or that he wouldn't be a good father when the time came. They curled up together with her back pressed to his chest, her hands over his on her growing stomach, and she told him that she was scared, too. She had the same fears as he did, but they also looked forward to the same joys, and together they would give their baby the life he or she deserved.

* * *

_Hipbone_

He'd never seen a woman as beautiful as she was. Staring down at her, he was overcome with the sudden urge to press his lips to every spot on her body. He started at the curve of her hip, brushing his lips over her skin, his kiss sending a shiver throughout her. He covered her in warm, loving kisses, trying to show her just how much she meant to him. It was hard for him to put it into words sometimes, a simple "I love you," not enough to describe the enormity of what he felt for her… but when they were together like that, just the two of them, he knew she could feel the magnitude of his love.

* * *

_Outer Thigh_

They collapsed onto the bed, worn out from their pillow fight. The room was a mess, pillows and blankets haphazardly strewn across the floor and furniture. She giggled at the absurdity of the situation, the King and Queen of Ferelden getting into a _pillow fight_, and soon enough he was laughing along with her. He rolled onto his side, almost kicking her in the face in the process, and grabbed her leg, pressing a kiss to her outer thigh, sighing and professing his love for her. She looked down towards her legs and grinned mischievously at him before reaching over and tickling the back of his knee, causing him to twitch and laugh uncontrollably. When they calmed down he maneuvered himself on the bed so he was upright, pulling her into his arms. They had the weight of the country on their shoulders, but at least they could still have a little fun.

* * *

_Inner Thigh_

As he settled between her legs, all his previous resolve fizzled away, gone in the blink of an eye. He had no idea what he was doing, and what if he screwed up? What if she didn't like it, and she decided she never wanted to be with him again? He swallowed hard, trying not to think about all the what if's, and looked up at her, meeting her gaze. She was biting her lip, clearly nervous as well, but there was also a glimmer of excitement in her eyes. Taking a shaky breath, he pressed a kiss to the inside of her thigh, unsure if it was to meant to steady him or her. She saw the unspoken worries in his gaze and slowly nodded at him. He nodded back before focusing on the task at hand; he could do this.

* * *

_Pelvic Bone_

She always liked a man who wore armor for a living. They tended to be delightfully muscular under all that metal, and he was no different. The first time she saw him shirtless, she actually stopped in her tracks to admire him, disappointed when he embarrassedly pulled his shirt back on. The man should have been banned from wearing shirts. It didn't matter now, because she had him all to herself and she wasn't going to waste any minute of it—especially when she could make him blush to the tips of his ears. She kissed every defined muscle on that chest and abdomen of his, all the way down to the top of his pelvic bone, until he was thoroughly hot and bothered. Like always, he stopped things before they progressed too far, and she planted one last kiss on his lips before leaving him alone, smiling to herself at a job well done.


	2. Uncertainty

**Uncertainty**

* * *

Five days of sleeping—not sleeping, _having nightmares_—on the cold, hard ground and they'd finally gotten tents. Isabel could finally attempt to sleep in the comforts of a measly shelter instead of out in the open in the freezing Wilds. If only she could figure out how to_build_ the tent.

After her third attempt, she gave up, stomping her foot into the ground and groaning in complete and utter frustration. She attracted the attention of the Qunari and the lay sister they'd recruited earlier that day, and she glared at them until they got back to their own business.

Isabel looked down at her tent, biting her lip and blinking back tears. She should be back_home_, tucked under the covers of her own warm bed instead of some stupid bedroll in a tent she couldn't even build. She should have a belly full of Nan's delicious cooking instead of being so _hungry_ all the time. She should be able to take a hot bath instead of being covered in such _filth_. She should be able to wake up from the inevitable nightmare she was going to have and find comfort in her family, instead of waking up alone, remembering that she didn't _have_ a family anymore.

"Do you need help?"

At the sound of Alistair's voice she sniffled, wiping away the few tears that escaped her eyes. She met his gaze and nodded, and without another word he got to work, setting up her tent for her. Isabel tried to pay attention to what he was doing, but she found herself watching him instead, intrigued by the way he seemed to focus so much on something that seemed so simple. When he finished, he stood next to her, admiring his handiwork.

"Thank you," she muttered.

"You're welcome," he replied. "It's not so hard once you get the hang of it."

She huffed. "I'm never going to get the hang of it."

"With some practice—"

"You don't get it," she snapped. "I'm not cut out for this." Her anger dissipated, leaving her with her grief again. "I'm not supposed to be here. This wasn't supposed to happen," she said, starting to sob. She ducked into her tent and pulled her legs to her chest, wrapping her arms around them and burying her face between her knees and her chest.

"Isabel?" Alistair called out.

"Go away."

He poked his head through the flaps of her tent. "Please?" She sighed and rolled her eyes, before giving him permission to come in. He sat beside her, and she sniffled, turning to face him. "For what it's worth, I think you're cut out for this. You got us this far," he pointed out, and she shook her head.

"_Morrigan_ got us this far. Or did you forget that she was the one who got us out of the Wilds?" she said. Alistair bristled at the mention of Morrigan, and she snorted a laugh. They _really_ didn't get along, at all. Isabel sighed, getting serious again. "Look, I appreciate the fact that you think I can handle this, but I can't. Fancy parties I can do, but this? Being a Grey Warden? Stopping an entire Blight?" She shook her head, looking away from his amber gaze. "It's too much for one person."

"Well, you're not alone," Alistair stated. "You've got a hulking, murderous Qunari, a lay sister who actually can fight and claims she's had visions of the Maker, a mean, nasty swamp witch, and your lovable mabari at your back." She met his eyes again and he smiled lopsidedly at her, shrugging his shoulders. "And you have me. I know I'm not much compared to our other esteemed companions, but I'm here. If you need me."

Isabel forced herself to smile. "Thank you, Alistair."

"I mean it, Isabel," he muttered. "I promise I won't lose it again. We can do this."

She almost believed him.


	3. Midnight Adventures

**Midnight Adventures**

* * *

Isabel awoke with a scream, covered in a cold sweat. Her heart was wildly thumping in her chest, her breaths frantic and uneven. Her nightmare had started with her reliving the bloody murders of her family, and then morphed into the horrors of the archdemon and the darkspawn. One without the other was a nightmare enough, but both together? She doubted she would sleep the rest of the night.

She could at least try to find comfort in Alistair's arms, so she crawled out of her bed and grabbed a blanket, wrapping it around her body. She opened her door and almost jumped when she found Alistair already standing there, his hand up and poised to knock.

"You dreamed of the archdemon as well?" she asked, a statement more than a question. He nodded, bringing his hand up to cup her face.

"And I heard you scream," he said with a frown. Isabel leaned into his touch, letting out a deep breath.

"My dream was more the archdemon interspersed between my family being murdered again and again," she muttered.

"Oh, Izzy," he sighed, pulling her into his embrace. She hugged the blanket tighter around herself and nestled her head in the crook of his neck. Alistair held her close, rubbing her back through the blanket to comfort her.

"I don't want to go back to sleep yet," she whispered, terrified of what she would see in her dreams.

He pressed a kiss to her hair. "Then let's go down to the larder. I know dinner was quite the feast, but I'm still hungry."

Isabel giggled; she would no doubt grow hungry once she was awake for a few more minutes, thanks to their Grey Warden appetite. "That sounds like a wonderful idea," she replied, pulling her head from his chest and offering him a small smile. Alistair flashed her that lopsided grin of his and pressed a quick kiss to her lips before they disentangled from each other. He took her hand and laced their fingers together as he led her through the passageways of the castle to the larder.

"Here we are, my lady," he said, opening the door for her. She giggled and stepped inside the larder, her stomach growling at the sight of all the food. Alistair's stomach growled in answer to hers, both of them bursting out in laughter. "I used to come here all the time as a boy," he said wistfully. "Back then I was too short to reach all the cheese." He plucked a wedge of cheese off of a shelf with a grin. Isabel rolled her eyes and grabbed some dried meats, while Alistair grabbed some bread.

He sat down on the floor, his back to the wall and his legs spread open, and she joined him, sitting between his legs, leaning back against his chest. He took her blanket and wrapped it around the both of them so they would stay warm while they ate.

Comfortable and content to be in his arms, Isabel began breaking off pieces of cheese, alternating from eating it herself and feeding it to Alistair over her shoulder. They stayed like that while they ate, and he told her stories of his escapades through the castle from when he was a boy. She even told a few stories of her and Fergus' adventures from when they were children, when she could speak of it without too much pain in her heart. When she had trouble finding her words, he would press little kisses to her neck, the gentle scrape of his beard a pleasant contrast to his soft lips. Those little kisses were a comfort, helping her get through the stories.

"Did you really lock yourself in the dungeon? For an entire day?" Isabel asked, remembering the comment he made when they first snuck into the castle a couple months prior.

He chuckled, his laugh rumbling through his chest so she could feel it against her back. "Yes, I actually did." He paused for a moment, his brow pulled down in thought before his expression softened and he shot her a mischievous smile. "Would you like to see the infamous cell?"

She looked up at him with a wry smile. "Of course."

They got up and quietly went down to the dungeon, their footsteps the only sound they made as they moved. Alistair directed her to a small cell, a pile of straw tossed into the corner. Isabel ran her fingers over the bars on the door as she stepped inside. She let out a short laugh and spun around to face him, giving him an amused smile.

"How exactly did you manage to lock yourself in here?" she asked, and he shook his head, his arms crossed over his chest as he leaned against the doorway.

"It's easier than you think," he retorted, pushing himself off the wall. "There's a draft from the windmill entrance… I learned the hard way that it blows the cell doors shut from time to time."

"A draft, huh?" He nodded, moving closer to her, and her lips curled into a devious grin. "Is that why it's so chilly down here?" she asked, faking a shiver.

"Oh, the lovely lady is cold?" he replied, a lopsided smile on his face. "I'll have to fix that, I think."

"And how do you intend on doing _that_, Ser Warden?"

He chuckled before closing the distance between them and claiming her lips in a kiss. It started off slow, but they got lost in each other, and soon enough Isabel found her back pressed against the wall of the cell, Alistair's hard, strong body pinning her there. He started kissing her neck, nibbling on her sensitive collarbone, and in her distracted state she barely registered a faint creaking sound. She didn't realize what it meant until she heard a metallic_click_, and when she did, she pushed Alistair off of her and stared at the door to the cell, wide-eyed.

"What?" he asked, starting to turn around. "Did I—_Oh, Maker_." He groaned, scratching the back of his head. Oh, Maker was right. The cell door had shut, and now they were locked in the cell. "See? I told you there was a draft."

"This is bad," Isabel stated, trying to remain calm. She walked up to the door and grabbed the bars, shaking them and trying to get the door open.

"Let me try," Alistair suggested, and he did the same thing, also failing. "So… it seems we're stuck in here…"

"Andraste have mercy on me," she muttered. "We're such _fools_."

"I did warn you about the draft," he started with a shrug.

"Are you saying this is _my_ fault?" she asked incredulously.

"No! I just…" He scratched the back of his head again, nervously quirking an eyebrow at her. "You distracted me with your feminine wiles?"

Isabel shook her head and rolled her eyes. "It's not my fault you can't resist them."

"How could I? Have you seen yourself?"

She snorted a laugh, and he smiled. "Oh, yes, I'm quite the sight, all wrapped up in this blanket."

Alistair looped his arms around her, pulling her close. "It's a very flattering blanket," he started with a mischievous grin. "I think you should exchange it with your armor. All the darkspawn would fall at your feet from what a radiant sight you are. The Blight would be over in a matter of days." Isabel giggled and kissed him, enjoying the feel of his lips and his body pressed against her.

"Flattery will get you almost anywhere," she commented after they broke apart.

"Good to know." He glanced to the pile of straw in the corner of the cell and frowned. "I'm sorry, but we're going to be stuck here the rest of the night."

"I am _not_ sleeping in a dirty dungeon, Alistair," Isabel stated, sounding very much like the spoiled noble she was.

"What would you have me do, _my lady_?" he asked, mocking her haughty tone. She glared at him, and he sighed, tugging her towards the corner of the cell. "Just think… it can't be much worse than sleeping on the cold, hard ground of the Wilds. Which we did for almost a week, I might add."

"And do you remember how _horrible_ it was?" she retorted, practically whining. She stared at the measly bunch of straw in the corner of the cell with a grimace. She did _not_ want to know just how dirty the floor was.

"Yes, it was bad… but now we can cuddle and keep each other warm," Alistair pointed out. She met his gaze and sighed, shaking her head.

"Fine, but _you_ can lay down there first and _then_ I can lay on top of you."

"Yes, my lady," he replied with a mock bow, and she rolled her eyes again. Alistair pulled off his shirt and rolled it into a makeshift pillow, placing it under his head as he lay on his back on the straw. He moved around until he got comfortable enough, and then she joined him, cuddling up to his side and resting her head on his bare chest. She pulled the blanket over them, and he wrapped his arms around her, keeping her close.

"See, it's not _so_ bad," he said, shivering when she moved her hand across his chest to hold him. "It's hard to complain when I have a beautiful woman in my arms."

"All right, you win with that one," she murmured, smiling to herself. She pressed a kiss right over his heart and she stifled a giggle when he breathed in sharply. "Goodnight, Ali."

"Night, Isabel." He kissed the top of her head and she let out a content sigh, the sound of his heartbeat eventually lulling her to sleep.

…

Since there was no natural light in the dungeon, Isabel didn't wake up on her own, sleeping until she heard voices and a rusty creaking sound. She fluttered her eyes open and lifted her head off Alistair's chest, craning her neck to see what was going on. Her sleepy gaze first fell upon a serving girl, then an amused Bann Teagan, and finally an _unamused_ Arl Eamon. The look on the arl's face and the sight of his arms crossed over his chest instantly snapped any drowsiness out of her system, and she bolted upright, wide awake. She reached over and pinched Alistair, _hard_, and he jerked awake, too.

"Ow!" he groaned, sitting up slowly, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Isabel grasped his arm and held it tightly, not taking her eyes away from their little audience just outside of the cell. "What the—" He instantly shut his mouth upon realizing what was going on, a blush creeping onto his cheeks as he nervously scratched the back of his head. "This is not what it looks like," he said quickly, just making them look _more_ guilty.

"And what exactly does it look like?" Eamon asked, still unpleased.

"Two Wardens accidentally locking themselves in a cell and spending the night on the cold, hard ground? _Sleeping_ of course…" Alistair started. "It's really not hard to lock yourself in one of these, Maker knows I've done it before…"

Eamon didn't seem to appreciate his joking tone and frowned. "Yes, I remember," the arl stated. "You two should prepare for your journey to Orzammar. You don't have time to waste."

"Yes, my lord," Alistair said, quickly getting up. He pulled Isabel up with him, wrapping the blanket around her and grabbing her hand, ready to scurry out of the dungeon.

"Alistair."

"Yeees?" he asked, whirling back around to face Eamon.

"You forgot your _shirt_."

He muttered a curse under his breath and grabbed it, throwing it on over his head. He grabbed Isabel's hand again and quickly led her out of the dungeon. As soon as they were alone, she let out a stream of laughter.

"It's not funny," he stated, clearly still embarrassed. She stopped him and pulled him into a tender kiss, giving him a small smile.

"Does it really matter that they found us like that?"

"Half naked and cuddled together?" he asked. "Yes!"

"We weren't doing anything bad," she stated. "I've found myself in much more compromising positions and they worked out fine. They'll forget about it once we leave, trust me."

"If you say so," he said with a huff. She placed her hand on his face and he leaned into the touch. He brought his hand over hers and then kissed her palm before lacing their fingers together. Alistair narrowed his eyes, quirking an eyebrow at her. "What sort of compromising positions are you talking about?" he asked. Before she could answer he shook his head. "Nope, never mind. I don't think I want to know."

Isabel giggled and started tugging him back upstairs. "Let's go."

Upon returning to their rooms, they passed the rooms of their companions, who had all gotten wind of where the two Wardens had spent the night. Alistair tightened his grip on her hand as they walked by them all, determined to get back to his room as fast as humanly possible.

"In the dungeons?" Zevran asked, moving next to Alistair as they walked. "I never would have thought you had such an appetite, my good friend Alistair."

"Andraste's flaming sword!" he groaned. "We didn't… not in the _dungeon_."

"It's a shame," Zevran continued. "Shackles and chains can spice things up, no?"

Isabel suppressed another fit of laughter, for Alistair's sake. As tempting as that all sounded, he had suffered enough embarrassment for one day. "Okay, that's enough of that," she cut in before Zevran said anything else. "We all need to get ready to leave for Orzammar, so get on it."

Zevran obeyed, heading towards his room, not without waggling his eyebrows at them first. Alistair sighed, shaking his head.

"They'll forget soon enough," Isabel said softly.

"I know, I know." He gave her a small, lopsided smile, cupping her cheek with his hand. He pressed a soft kiss to her lips before pulling away."I'll see you at breakfast?"

"I'll save you some extra food," she said, smiling when his face lit up.

"You're the best, Izzy."

She squeezed his hand before they parted, each heading to their own rooms to prepare for the next part of their journey.


	4. A Very Handsome Man

**A Very Handsome Man**

So this is my take on the "Has anyone ever told you how handsome you are?" conversation that the Warden can have with Alistair. Except for him and Isabel it happens once they're already together (and he had just almost confessed his love for her but didn't in the last moment).

* * *

Alistair was a _very_ handsome man. Had Isabel not been so grief-stricken when she first met him, she would have pulled out every charm and flirting tactic she'd mastered over the years to get him alone somewhere private. And then she would have reveled in his delicious good looks… among other things.

Fate had a weird sense of humor, because they ended up alone together, after all. They sat at the edge of camp, her body right next to his, while he idly played with her hand, his fingers tracing over hers and the lines of her palm. Isabel couldn't take her eyes off of him, gazing appreciatively over his features… his beautiful amber eyes, kissable lips, and that nose of his—the same nose his father and brother had.

"Izzy?" Alistair asked, suddenly turning to face her, his eyes meeting hers.

"Hmm?"

"You were staring at me," he said. "I didn't get food all over my face did I?"

"No, not at all," she replied with a light laugh. "I was simply looking at you. Has anyone ever told you how handsome you are?"

He quirked an eyebrow at her. "Not unless they were asking me for a favor," he answered. "Well, there was that one time in Denerim, but those women were… not like you." He looked at her suspiciously, biting back a grin. "Why are you asking? Is this your way of telling me _you_think I'm handsome?"

Isabel shot him a wry smile. "And if it is? What then?"

"Oh, nothing much," he said with a shrug. "I just get to grin and look foolish for a while."

She snorted a laugh. "Alistair, you _always_ look foolish."

"Hey!" He brought his hand to his chest in mock offense. "That hurts. I think I might cry."

Isabel giggled, bumping her shoulder with his. He bumped her back, smiling at her, and she took a moment to study him. "I have a feeling that you already _know_ that you're handsome."

"Maybe. It doesn't hurt to have a pretty girl say that, though," he said, and she smiled. "Beats being run through with a sword any day!" Isabel laughed before calming down and resting her head on his shoulder, his arm coming around her to hold her close. "You never answered my question," he muttered after a short silence.

"Oh, right… do _I_ think you're handsome," she said. She lifted her head off his shoulder and shot him a mischievous grin. "My lips are sealed on that matter."

"Oh, I get it," he started, chuckling. "I'll get it out of you, yet."

Isabel bit her lip and leaned closer to him, her gaze drifting down to his lips before meeting his eyes again. "And how do you plan on doing that?" she asked, her voice just above a whisper.

He flashed her a quick smile before closing the small distance between them and pressing his mouth to hers. She sighed into the kiss, her hand coming up to thread through his short hair, his cupping her face. Alistair shifted his weight and turned his body towards her, slowly and gently lowering her to the ground as he climbed over her. She pulled his body down against hers as she deepened the kiss, both of them getting lost in each other until they broke for air. He pulled back and rested his forehead against hers, and she grinned, nuzzling her face against his.

"All right, I'll admit it," she said, still a little breathless. "You, Alistair, are a _very_ handsome man."

He huffed a laugh and smiled. "What a relief!" he replied, and she giggled. "So… is this the part where I get to say the same?"

Isabel snorted. "Well, that would be _nice_," she said sarcastically.

"Oh? In that case… Isabel, you are a _very_ handsome man."

"Alistair!" She shoved him in the shoulder and they cracked-up, their whole bodies shaking with the force of their laughter. He rolled off of her as they started to calm down, and Isabel moved to his side, draping herself over him with a smile. Alistair lifted his hand to caress her cheek, looking up at her with pure adoration in his eyes.

"You _are_ beautiful… especially when you smile like that," he said softly, and her smile grew.

"Flatterer."

"Ah, you've caught me, dear lady," he replied. "I will do _anything_ to get you to kiss me again."

"All you have to do is ask," she whispered, lowering her lips to his.


	5. First Knight

**First Knight**

* * *

Everything about her—the way she moans his name, the way she looks lying beneath him, her scent—is _overwhelming_, but it's the way she feels that sends him into a frenzy, desperately chasing his release as they move together.

Her fingernails scraping down his back, her soft skin pressed flush against his as she arches towards him, her warm, shallow breath in his ear—it all pushes him closer to the edge. And the way she feels wrapped around him—_Maker_, she feels better than he ever imagined, and he _can't take it anymore_.

He tumbles over the edge, eyes shut tight, bowing his head against hers as he loudly groans her name. He tenses as his fingers dig into her skin, and he would have been concerned about hurting her if he wasn't dizzy with the most mind-numbing pleasure he's ever experienced.

When the initial feeling passes, he collapses into a boneless heap against her, barely remembering not to crush her. He wraps his arms around her and presses his forehead against hers, his wild heartbeat raging in his ears. He mutters an "I love you" between heavy breaths, both as a testament of his love for her and as an apology. He finished too fast, and he's pretty sure she never got there, so he's ruined their first time together. He was too blinded by how_good_ she felt to make sure she was enjoying it herself, and now the warm afterglow spreading through his body is tinged with guilt.

But she just holds either side of his face, her thumbs stroking his cheeks as she nuzzles his face with hers. And when "I love you, too" slips past her lips, he exhales in relief, his heart doing somersaults in his chest.

_She loved him._ Now that… _that_ was the best feeling in the world.


	6. Reassurances

**Reassurances**

* * *

They were supposed to be watching the camp while everyone slept, but instead they were lying on the edge of camp, looking up at the stars, content to simply be in each other's presence.

Isabel sighed, biting back a smile. She was just so _happy_. There was a long period of time when she thought she'd never be happy again, and then Alistair had waltzed into her life. They'd both been so broken and damaged, but they slowly helped each other rebuild the pieces of their shattered hearts… and she'd handed him her heart in the process.

She loved him. By the Maker, she was completely and utterly in love with him. And it was _wonderful_.

"Ali?" she whispered, turning to look at him. She giggled when she found him already staring at her, a lopsided smile on his handsome face. Isabel couldn't restrain her smile now, and she grinned at him, rolling onto her side to face him. He shifted onto his side, looping his arm around her waist to keep her close. "I love you," she murmured, lightly running her fingers across his face.

Alistair beamed at her, just as he had when she'd first admitted it. "I know," he said, clearly excited, and she huffed, embarrassed.

"I'm so sorry I made you wait to hear me say that." She swallowed hard, not meeting his eyes. "I… I just couldn't—"

"I know," he repeated, somberly this time. Isabel had been so scared to confess her feelings for him, even after he'd told her that he loved her. She lost everyone she ever loved, and the thought of that happening again petrified her. It still did. "Izzy… look at me, love."

She returned her gaze to his, trailing her thumb over his lips. He took her hand and held it still as he pressed a gentle kiss to each of her fingertips, the sweet gesture bringing a small smile back to her face. He laced their fingers together as he rested his forehead against hers, still staring at her with his unwavering, amber gaze.

"I love you, too," he said softly. "I will always love you, no matter what tries to tear us apart."

"But what if—"

"But, nothing," he interrupted. "We've made it this far. I have to believe we'll make it through the Blight."

"And after the Blight?" she breathed, letting herself believe that he was right.

Alistair chuckled, shooting her that dopey grin that made her heart melt. "I intend to spend my days eating as much cheese as I desire… with you at my side, of course."

Isabel snorted a laugh, rolling her eyes at him. She sighed and bit her lip, that sense of happiness bubbling up in her chest again.

"I love you," she repeated, and he nuzzled her face.

"Say it again," he muttered, his stubble tickling her skin.

"I love you."

Isabel was smiling when his lips met hers, and she fluttered her eyes closed as she returned the tender kiss. Her fears were the farthest thing from her mind; the only thing she felt was her love for him, and how much he loved her back. And that was all she truly needed to get through the Blight.


	7. Scratches

**Scratches**

* * *

Isabel sat next to Alistair on a broken log, as she and Wynne unbuckled the straps of his armor. Wynne was calm, her movements patient and precise, unlike Isabel. She wasn't as composed, her shaking hands frantically trying to unbuckle the familiar fastenings on his armor. It shouldn't have been so _hard_, she'd unbuckled his armor so many times before, but she couldn't get past the _blood_ pouring out of his shoulder where an arrow was sticking out of it. She knew the injury wasn't immediately life threatening, but she couldn't get the thought out of her mind that _something_ would go wrong.

They carefully peeled off all the heavy metal from Alistair's torso, cautiously removing his undershirt without jostling the arrow, leaving him shirtless. Isabel bit her lip as she watched Wynne grab the arrow's shaft, preparing to push it through his shoulder so she could properly get it out.

"Ready?" she asked, and Alistair nodded curtly, bracing himself. He grunted in pain as she pushed the arrow into his shoulder, the arrowhead coming out of his back. Wynne snapped it off and then pulled the rest of the arrow back through from the front, tossing the bloody thing aside. She dabbed at the wound with a clean towel, attempting to staunch the blood flow until she could heal it.

Alistair glanced towards Isabel, his amber eyes meeting hers, a tinge of trepidation in his gaze. Even after months of having Wynne around to heal everyone's injuries, he was still uncomfortable with magic being used on him. Isabel always provided the little bit of extra support he needed to get through it.

She forced herself to smile, taking his hand and lacing her fingers with his. He leaned towards her and she rested her forehead against his, nuzzling his face. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath that tickled her lips when he exhaled.

"Do it," he muttered, and a moment later he was squeezing her hand as Wynne healed the arrow wound. Isabel knew the moment it was over, because he relaxed, sighing and leaning against her. She pressed a kiss to his cheek, and he opened his eyes, smiling at her.

"Wynne, it seems you have missed a spot," came Zevran's voice. Both Wardens turned to the source, finding the assassin sitting in Wynne's vacant seat on the other side of Alistair. Wynne stood next to the log, quirking an eyebrow at him.

"And what is it I have missed?" she asked, coming around to stand behind Alistair.

"He didn't get hurt anywhere else, did he?" Isabel said quickly, sitting back and sweeping her gaze over Alistair's chest and abdomen, then moving so she could see his back. Her eyes landed on what she suspected Zevran was going on about, and once she saw the other man's smirk, she knew she guessed right.

"What? What is it?" Alistair asked, craning his head around to try and see what the three of them were staring at.

"It's nothing, Ali," Isabel began, her fingers lightly tracing over scratch marks she'd accidentally left on his back.

"Someone got a little carried away last night, hmm?" Zevran said, Wynne shaking her head and rolling her eyes.

"Carried away? What do you mean—" Alistair stopped speaking, his eyes wide with the realization of what they were talking about. He swallowed hard, that adorable blush of his creeping onto his cheeks. "Oh, Maker," he groaned, slouching forwards.

Isabel bit back a grin, and Wynne shot her and Zevran a disapproving look. "Would you like me to heal them, Alistair?"

He went to answer her, but Zevran spoke first. "I don't think we should expose the poor man to _more_ magic…"

"And besides, they can be a reminder of last night," Isabel added, unable to contain her grin any longer.

"I don't think _any_ of us will forget last night," Zevran started, smirking. "You two are not as quiet as you think you are, especially you, my good friend Alistair." He groaned again, blushing even more, the tips of his ears turning red. Isabel and Zevran laughed, and he buried his face in his hands, shaking his head.

Wynne sighed at their immature antics, offering her healing services to Alistair should he still want them before she took her leave. Zevran followed her, still snickering as he left the two Wardens alone.

When she regained her breath from laughing, Isabel started to gently rub his back, slowly feeling him relax under her touch.

"I'm sorry, Alistair, I couldn't resist," she murmured. "We can get Wynne to heal the marks if you're embarrassed." He sat up and met her gaze, a light blush still on his cheeks.

"I'm not embarrassed," he said, and she quirked an eyebrow at him. "I mean, I _am_, but I…" He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck as he looked down at the ground. "I liked it." He gazed back at her sheepishly, his brow furrowing when he saw the devious glint in her eye and the way her lips had curled into a mischievous smile. "Izzy, why are you looking at me like that?"

"Like what?"

"Like you're going to drag me back to our tent and have your wicked, wicked way with me."

"Oh, I'm sorry, do you not like it when I have my wicked way with you?" she purred, sliding her hand up his chest before dragging her fingernails back down just a little harder than necessary. His breath hitched, his eyes momentarily fluttering closed before they opened again, his gaze boring right into hers.

"I love it when you have your wicked way with me," he growled, reaching to pull her into his arms. Isabel weaseled out of his grasp and hopped off of the log, batting her eyelashes at him. He flew out of his seat and she squealed when he grabbed her, wrapping his arms around her and tugging her close.

Alistair captured her lips in a heated kiss that slowly simmered down into something more tender. When he pulled back, she grinned at him, teasingly dragging her fingers down his abdomen.

"Let's help everyone finish setting up camp, and after dinner I'll let you drag me back to our tent, and then _you_ can have _your_ wicked way with _me_," she said, her voice low and seductive. "Who knows, maybe you'll end up with more scratch marks that you can show off tomorrow morning."

Alistair blushed again, and she giggled, pressing a quick kiss to his lips. She took his hand and started to drag him back to the center of camp before he stopped her. He turned her back around to face him, lightly caressing her cheek.

"I love you, Izzy," he breathed, a soft smile gracing his lips.

Isabel grinned and leaned into his touch, her heart warming inside her chest at his words. "I love you, too, Alistair. Always."


	8. Amuse Me

**Amuse Me**

Drabble request: a funny drabble about my character trying to cheer yours up.

* * *

He wasn't surprised to find her sitting alone in front of the dying fire. He'd seen the way she longingly looked down the road to Highever during their travels earlier that day. Their proximity to her old home most likely prompted a nightmare about the night her family was massacred.

Isabel usually held herself like the highborn lady she was, but now she was slouching, blankly staring at the dim embers of the fire. Her hair was sticking out in all the wrong places, and the collar of his shirt that she wore hung lopsided off her shoulder. Alistair loved seeing her like this—well, not _upset_, but… disheveled. He was the only person who ever saw her in such a state and it made him feel… special.

He sat down next to her, and she jerked up, startled by his presence. Her brilliant green eyes landed on him, her brows furrowed.

"Did I wake you?"

Alistair shot her a lopsided smile. "You know it's impossible to wake me. I'd be sleeping through this entire Blight if I wasn't a Warden." She smiled briefly before her expression became serious again. Well, that wasn't the exact reaction he was going for. He'd hoped to at least make her laugh. "What's wrong?" he asked softly.

"What _isn't_ wrong," she started bitterly. "I'm exhausted, I'm hungry all the time, I'm in a constant state of filth, my feet hurt, my back hurts, my head hurts… _everything_ hurts." She let out an exasperated sigh, looking back to the fire. "I just want to go home and steal Nan's cookies with Oren, take a hot bath, say goodnight to my family, and sleep in my own bed." Isabel angrily wiped away a stray tear, blinking rapidly to hold the others at bay. "But I can't. They're all dead and Highever's gone."

"Isabel…"

"I'm sorry, Ali," she said, meeting his gaze again, her eyes shining with unshed tears. "I just miss them so much."

"I know you do," he replied, wrapping his arm around her shoulders and pulling her to his side. She wrapped her arms around him and nestled her head against his shoulder. "Don't be sorry about that."

She nodded against him and was quiet as he ran his fingers up and down her arm in an attempt to soothe her. Alistair felt her wet eyelashes flitting against his skin, and when she sniffled, teardrops dripped onto his chest. He shifted uncomfortably, trying to ignore the ticklish tingles it was causing him.

"What?" she asked, lifting her face off his chest. When he didn't reply right away, she quirked an eyebrow at him, waiting for his answer.

"You're tickling me," he said, almost embarrassed, a light blush creeping onto his cheeks. Isabel giggled, wiping the rest of her tears away before smiling at him. He smiled back; he couldn't help it, not when she was looking at him like that.

"Sorry," she said, stifling more laughter, "I didn't realize your _chest_ was ticklish."

"It's not that my chest is ticklish, your eyelashes were doing that _thing,"_ Alistair started, and she looked at him like he was crazy. "You know, when they flutter against you and make you ticklish."

Isabel snorted and laughed again, and even though she was laughing at him he was glad to hear it. The sound was music to his ears, and it always lit up her face in a way that made her look so beautiful—_more_ beautiful, really.

She let out a deep breath as she calmed down, tilting her head to the side as she stared at him, a small smile upon her lips. She brought her hand up to his face, her thumb stroking his cheek, and then she was kissing him, her lips soft and warm against his own.

"Thank you," she said when she pulled back. Isabel laced their fingers together, resting their conjoined hands on her lap. "Thank you for always being here for me."

"It's my job. I'm your knight in shining armor, remember?" Alistair said with a lopsided grin. "I'll bravely fight monsters to protect my lady and keep her safe. And happy." He started flailing around his free arm, pretending to fight off enemies, and Isabel started laughing again.

"If you're my loyal knight, does that make me a princess?" she asked. "I always wanted to be a princess when I was a little girl."

"If you're a princess, you'll have to be locked in a tower until I come and rescue you from the evil dragon."

"Locked up and helpless?" she said with a haughty huff, raising an eyebrow at him. "I don't think so. You're the royal one, _you_ can be locked up in the tower, _your Highness_."

Alistair grimaced at her words, which only provoked more giggles from his fellow Warden. He wanted nothing to do with his royal blood, fictional situation or otherwise… unless…

"Only if there's cheese in the tower," he stated. Isabel bit her lip, only to hold back more laughter. He grinned at her and she lost it, cracking-up after an unladylike snort. He joined in, chuckling alongside her, until their laughs eventually died down.

She rested her head against his shoulder, their fingers still twined together. "It's always cheese with you, isn't it?" she said as he started to rub his thumb over the back of her hand. "You know, sometimes I wonder if you love cheese more than you love me. If you had to choose between me or cheese, what would you do?"

"I'd choose the cheese, of course," he said, completely straight-faced, and Isabel sat up and shoved him in the arm.

"Very funny."

Alistair just grinned at her, and she rolled her eyes. He bumped her shoulder with his, and she bumped him back, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. He looked up and caught a glance of Shale watching over the camp, realizing they weren't as alone as he thought. He leaned closer to Isabel, warily watching the golem.

"We should probably head back to our tent," he whispered, gesturing to the camp's guardian. "Lest Shale decides she's sick of our laughter and decides to bash our heads in."

Isabel snorted a laugh before she brought her hand up to cover her mouth, her eyes wide. She glanced over to Shale, who seemed to be scowling—if golems could actually scowl.

"I think you're right," she said, quickly standing up and pulling him with her. They scurried back their tent as swiftly and quietly as they could, careful not to wake the others. Once they were inside, they rearranged their bedroll before climbing under the covers. They cuddled together, her head resting on Alistair's chest and their arms wrapped around each other. When they were comfortable, Isabel let out a deep sigh, her breath tickling his chest again. Alistair smiled to himself before pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

"Hey, Izzy?"

"Hmm?"

"I love you," he said, his voice just above a whisper. "You know that, right?"

"Yes, I know," she murmured. "I love you, too." His smile grew wider at her words. "Goodnight, my brave knight."

"Night, my lady."


	9. The Bite

**The Bite**

A bit of info about this: Zathrian says that "the affliction is a curse that runs rampant in their blood." Because a Grey Warden's already got the taint in their blood, I headcanon that the two don't react very well together, and it speeds up the whole turning/dying in agony process of being bit by a werewolf.

* * *

He'd been bitten by a werewolf.

After everything they'd been through, that's how it was going to end. A werewolf bite.

Isabel panicked when she saw the bite mark and it's accompanying symptoms—symptoms that weren't supposed to show for a few days after the bite. Nonetheless, Alistair was sweaty, nauseous, and the pain from the wound was growing by the minute. Isabel wished Wynne was there to heal him, to help with his pain, to do _something_, but that stupid mist had appeared out of nowhere and they'd gotten separated from her and the rest of their companions.

By the time nightfall came, Alistair could barely travel anymore, so they made camp for the night. As soon as everything was set up, Isabel tried to help Alistair as best she could. She tried to get him to eat, but he couldn't look at food without wanting to retch. She tried to force healing potions down his throat to help with the pain, but he couldn't get those down either. She stripped his armor off, leaving him in in only his pants, wiping the sweat from his body.

His breathing was shallow and unsteady as she dabbed the drops of sweat on his forehead with a cloth, his lips pressed together and his brow wrinkled just the slightest bit. He was trying so hard not to show his pain, most likely for her own benefit, but Isabel knew him too well to be fooled by his brave front. He was hurting, and so was she.

"Will you hold me?" he asked, a desperate look in his amber eyes. His voice cracked, betraying the composed façade he presented. Isabel nodded, forcing herself to smile at him. She tossed the cloth aside, settling back against her bedroll. Alistair laid with her, his burning body at her side, resting his head on her chest, his arms tightly encircling her waist. She gently ran her fingers through his short hair, her other hand holding him close.

It was weird to be comforting him like this. They both had nightmares about the darkspawn and the archdemon, but hers were always worse—and they were usually mixed with horrible dreams of her murdered family. More often than not, Alistair was the one comforting her, not the other way around. There had been times when she held him like she did now, but it was still new to her… even after knowing him for months.

"My middle name is Haelia," Isabel murmured, pressing a kiss to his clammy forehead.

"Haelia?"

"Yes, after Haelia Cousland," she replied. "Back during the Black Age she rallied the lords under her banner to rid their lands of werewolves. It earned her the title of Teyrna. Aldous, our historian, would tell us stories of her exploits against them." Isabel began to recite the stories, just as he always spoke to her to comfort her. Soon enough he seemed to feel better, relaxing his grip on her, his breaths steadying. "I guess it's fitting we're the ones dealing with werewolves now, considering my family's history," she finished, and he let out a weak laugh.

"I'm not surprised you're descended from such greatness," he muttered. "I guess you'll end up just like Haelia… it should be you…"

"What should be me?"

"I want you to be the one… to kill me… before I turn," he said, his voice barely audible.

Isabel bit her lip, blinking back the tears beginning to well in her eyes. "I'm not going to let that happen," she breathed.

"Oh, Izzy…" Alistair winced, momentarily digging his fingers into her skin as he fought back a wave of pain. "We're lost. The cure—"

"I'm not losing you, Alistair, not like this," she interrupted, trying to keep her voice steady. She couldn't fall apart _now_. "We'll find the others and then we'll find the cure. I'll rip Witherfang's heart out myself if I have to." She swallowed hard, holding him tighter. "I'm not losing you, too."

He shifted his head on her chest, meeting her gaze, staring at her for a long moment before trying to smile. "I love you, Isabel," he mumbled.

She sniffled, a knot forming in her throat from trying not to cry. "I love you, too," she replied, her voice wavering. "I'll fix this, I promise." He nodded, nestling his head back against her chest, and she resumed stroking his hair. "Don't worry about it, okay? Just try and get some sleep."

Alistair closed his eyes, eventually drifting off to sleep despite his symptoms. Isabel was jealous of the way he could almost sleep on command. When he didn't have any nightmares, he was such a heavy sleeper that he could probably sleep through an entire battle.

But Isabel wasn't going to sleep. Not when the man she loved was turning into a monster—a monster she'd have to kill. He was all she had left, her only family, and she couldn't lose him. She _couldn't_.


	10. Offer Me

**Offer Me**

Drabble Request: drabble about one character giving another a gift.

This takes place very soon after the Archdemon was killed. Also, Alistair was the one who proposed (awkwardly, of course) _after_ the Landsmeet.

* * *

Isabel fluttered her eyes open, the bright sunlight filtering through the windows blinding and blurring her vision. She rapidly blinked her eyes, darting her gaze around her unfamiliar surroundings. It took her a moment to recall the night before, but when she did, she smiled to herself.

She was in the king's bedchambers, specifically the king's very large and comfortable bed, with the future king himself pressed up against her back, his fingers tracing random shapes over her stomach. Isabel stretched, rubbing the sleep from her eyes before turning in his arms to face him, the soft, silky sheets feeling wonderful against her bare skin.

When she met his eyes he beamed at her, and she giggled. She snuggled closer to his warmth and let out a content sigh as he rearranged his arms around her, holding her close. Isabel could definitely get used to waking up like this.

"Gooood morning," Alistair chirped, his voice uncharacteristically cheery for so early in the day.

"Good morning to you, too," she replied, looking up at him and quirking an eyebrow at him in interest. She'd expected Alistair to be completely zonked out, like he was most mornings. Granted, it was the morning after they celebrated their reunion after killing the archdemon, but _still_. Even when he woke up first, he was always sleepy. He was never_this_ awake.

"I have something for you," he said, trying to hide his excitement. Isabel quirked an eyebrow at him and he rolled over, reaching inside the drawer of the nightstand on his side of the bed. When he turned back to face her, he was holding a small box tied up with a ribbon.

"What is this?"

"Open it and find out." She took the box from him and untied the ribbon as he propped himself up on his elbow, watching her eagerly. When she opened the lid of the box, she gasped, her eyes widening in shock.

Inside was a ring. A beautiful, stunning, _diamond_ ring. Isabel just stared at it, a smile starting to form on her lips.

"Maker's breath, Alistair, it's _beautiful_," she whispered.

"So… you like it?"

"I _love_ it."

Alistair let out a breath of relief, and plucked it from the box, taking her left hand and sliding it onto her ring finger. She was grinning now, her breath catching at the sight of the engagement ring on her hand. It was _perfect_. She couldn't stop herself from staring at it as it sparkled in the morning sunlight.

"I know it was awkward when I first asked," he started, a nervous blush creeping onto his cheeks, "but I wanted to do it right this time… you know, with a ring."

Isabel giggled. "Most men would just get down on one knee with the ring and ask."

His eyes widened and he blushed even more. "Right. I knew that, I was—" She cut him off by pressing her lips to his.

"I don't care about that," she said, caressing his face and rubbing her thumb over his cheekbone. "This was a wonderful sort-of second proposal."

Alistair sighed in relief and pulled her closer, pressing his forehead against hers with a smile. "I'm just glad you like the ring."

"I love it," she repeated, gazing into his eyes. "And I love _you_."

His face lit up, just like the first time she said it to him, and he looked at her with that adoring gaze that made her feel like the luckiest woman in the world.

"I love you, too, Isabel."


	11. Overreaction

**Overreaction**

A few notes:  
• This takes place the same day as _Offer Me_, right after the archdemon was slain (technically a few days after because both Isabel and Alistair were knocked out for a few days after the battle).  
• When Isabel's father appeared during the Gauntlet, he didn't give her the random necklace you get, he gave her a necklace that belonged to her mother. It seemed more personal (and more magic-y since that whole quest was… interesting).  
• Both Isabel _and_ Alistair killed the archdemon. They didn't know if the Dark Ritual would work, so after an argument he ran at it first and did the whole slice-the-neck-open thingy, and she ran after him and stabbed it in the head, finishing it off.

* * *

Isabel stared at her reflection in the mirror of her vanity, her eyes drawn to the pendant falling above the décolletage of her dress. A little vial of darkspawn blood hanging on a simple cord, meant as a reminder of those who didn't make it as far as she did. For Isabel, it reminded her of _everything_ she had lost—her family, her home, and almost her life.

She had lost _so much_, but by some miracle, she got Fergus back. And she still had Alistair.

But she almost lost him as well… too many times to count. The entire Blight was filled with occasions she thought would take him from her, from simple fights, to the Landsmeet, to the archdemon. _That_ was still fresh in her memory—the sight of him running at the behemoth of a creature in an attempt to sacrifice himself for her and the sake of Ferelden. He was a fool, but so was she, because she ran right after him and killed the thing herself in a desperate attempt to keep him alive.

She had no way of knowing _that ritual_ would actually work, but it did, and they both survived. Half the country was in shambles, but the Blight was _over_. She was a hero, her brother was alive, and she was engaged to the future king, the man she loved… she could have her happy ending.

But Isabel still felt apprehension settling in the pit of her stomach.

She untied the cord holding the vial of darkspawn blood around her neck, placing it on the vanity before her. That part of her life was over, and she didn't want to remember what she had lost anymore. Besides, it wasn't very befitting of a lady to walk around wearing a vial of_blood_.

With a sigh, Isabel pulled out her mother's necklace, the Cousland sigil etched into the pendant. She didn't know how the specter of her father had gotten it, but then again, the entirety of the Gauntlet was a strange experience.

A knock on the door startled her out of her reverie, and she quickly made her way to it. "Izzy?" came Alistair's voice. "Are you decent?"

She opened the door and he just stared as he took her in, his eyes wide and mouth hanging open.

"You're gaping," Isabel pointed out, biting back a grin.

"I can't help it," he replied, his fingers lightly tracing over the lace sleeves of her dress. "Maker's breath, Isabel, you're beautiful."

"I told you I look better in a dress than I do in armor."

"You always look good, love," Alistair started. "I, on the other hand, look ridiculous." She quirked an eyebrow at him, and he nodded. "I look like a court jester, not the future king," he said, uncomfortably shifting on his feet as she raked her eyes over him. A smile spread across her face at his outfit—simple breeches and a leather doublet, complete with gold buttons and embroidery, over a long-sleeved shirt. Isabel had only ever seen him in armor, or loose, casual shirts, and _Maker_, did he look amazing in his new finery. "I can't tell if you're smiling because I look good, or because I look like a fool," he muttered nervously, scratching the back of his head.

"You do not look like a fool," she breathed, running her hand up over the soft leather covering his chest before resting it above his heart. "You look _very_ handsome."

"Oh, good," he said, relieved, taking her hand and pressing a kiss to her palm. His gaze traveled over her again, his brows furrowing when his eyes landed on her chest. "You're not wearing your Warden pendant…"

"Proper ladies don't walk around wearing darkspawn blood around their necks," she replied. Isabel tore her gaze from him, glancing over to her vanity. "It brings back bad memories," she murmured. "These past months as a Warden… it's over, and I don't want to think about all the bad things that happened."

"It wasn't _all_ bad," he muttered.

Isabel met his gaze again, sighing and offering him a small smile as she placed her hand on his face. "You're right… we had our good moments." In all honesty, she probably wouldn't have made it as far as she did without him. For the longest time he was her support system, the person she could count on to have her back no matter what… but now things were changing. "But, like I said, the Blight's over," she stated pulling away from him and returning to her vanity. "We're starting a new chapter in our lives, and this one doesn't involve fighting darkspawn. We've got to deal with the nobles instead."

"I'd rather face the darkspawn," Alistair muttered, stepping up behind her, his arms slinking around her waist.

"I know, but this is our duty," she said, running her fingers over her mother's amulet. "Mother always said, 'duty first.'"

"May I?" he asked, his eyes finding hers in the mirror. Isabel nodded and he took the necklace and clasped it around her neck, his fingers tracing the pendant before straying to the scar on her shoulder, the faint white lines on her skin visible past the hem of her dress. Mother also said ladies didn't have scars. She would repeat it over and over again whenever Isabel would insist on sparring with Ser Gilmore. It wasn't that she didn't want her to fight—her parents encouraged her to learn how to properly defend herself—she just didn't want things to get carried away and lead to an accident.

"I can't go out like this," Isabel stated, shaking her head.

"Like what?" Alistair asked, his brows knitting together in confusion.

She whirled around to face him, shooting him a glare. "It's this _scar_, Alistair. Ladies don't have_scars_. I can't walk around the palace like this!" She slipped from his grasp, biting her lip as she started to pace.

"You just killed an archdemon and _this_ is what scares you? That people won't think you're a lady because of one small scar?" he said incredulously, quirking an eyebrow at her. "Don't you think you're overreacting?" Isabel opened her mouth to speak but quickly shut it, biting her lip again as she looked away from him. "This… isn't about the scar… is it?" he muttered. Alistair placed his fingers under her chin and lifted her face towards his, his amber eyes boring into hers as he studied her. "What are you so afraid of?"

"Losing you," she breathed. "You almost died four days ago, Ali. We _both_ did. How am I supposed to sit here and play dress up for Eamon and the other nobles when I almost lost you?"

"Oh, Izzy… I'm not going anywhere," he whispered, cupping her face in his hands. She jerked away from him and shot him another glare, tears in her eyes.

"But you were!" Her chest heaved as she fought back tears, a knot forming in her throat. "You said _goodbye_, and then you ran right at the archdemon. You were going to leave me!"

"And _you_ weren't going to leave _me_?" he shot back angrily. "Do you know what it felt like when I turned around and saw you stabbing it in the head?" He grabbed her arms, his wide eyes meeting hers. "I was terrified, Isabel! I thought you were going to die on me."

"But it was okay for _you_ to die, instead," she replied bitterly, sniffling as tears started to fall down her cheeks, images of his dead body from nightmares flashing through her mind. "You_know_ that I know what it feels like, and I _hate _it. Feeling so completely and utterly _helpless_, unable to do _anything_ as the one thing you love most in the world is _ripped_ away from you…" Isabel shook her head, choking back a sob. "I couldn't just stand there and do _nothing_."

"I know, love," he said softly, pulling her into his embrace. "I know." Alistair held her tight as she started to cry in earnest, her face buried in his neck, hands grasping him desperately. He whispered words of love to her, over and over, while rubbing her back to try and soothe her. "We're safe now, Izzy. That's all that matters."

"But we're _not_," she said, pulling her face back and wiping her tears with the heels of her hands. "I thought I was safe in Highever, but I was wrong… and everyone died."

"That wasn't your fault."

"My father left me in charge, Alistair," she protested. "He left everyone under my care and protection—the guards, the staff, _my family_… and I couldn't save them. I had _one_ job, running the household, something I'd been trained to do my _whole_ _life_, and I failed _miserably_." Isabel swallowed hard, holding back more tears. "What if I can't do this either? What if the nobles revolt against us and another civil war starts? What if _you_ die this time?"

"And here I was, thinking _I_ was the only one worried about the nobles," Alistair muttered sarcastically. She made a strangled noise somewhere between a huff, a snort, and a laugh, biting her lip to keep quiet. He smiled softly at her, brushing away a loose strand of her hair before resting his hand on her face, his thumb gently rubbing her cheek. "What happened in Highever wasn't your fault, love," he stated firmly, like he had a million times before. "It was Howe's, and he paid for it."

"I know," Isabel sighed. "But I'm still scared. I just want us to be happy and safe… but I don't know if that's going to happen."

"Well, as long as we're together, we'll be happy. And since I have no intention of ever leaving your side, that should be taken care of," he said, that lopsided smile of his so infectious that she started to smile herself. "And Eamon has an entire platoon of guards just ready and waiting to follow us around everywhere we go, so we'll be safe, too."

"But if the nobles—"

"Were you at the same Landsmeet I was?" he asked, quirking an eyebrow at her. "You can handle the nobles, Izzy, I've seen it with my own eyes." Alistair's gaze drifted down to her mother's necklace before meeting her eyes again. "You're a Cousland. You _were_ trained for this, and you can do it."

"You have a lot of faith in me," she murmured, and his smile grew into a grin.

"Everyone's got faith in you, love," he chirped. "You're the Hero of Ferelden! If the nobles try anything just bring _that_ up!" Isabel giggled before shaking her head and biting her lip. Alistair moved closer to her, resting his forehead against hers, his other hand coming up to join the first, both cupping her face. "I _do_ have faith in you, Izzy. Just like you have faith that I'm not going to screw up the entire kingdom."

"You'll do fine," she said, brining her hand up over his, nuzzling his face with hers.

He sighed, his breath tickling her lips. "Look, I don't know the nobility like you do, but I've got your back. I promise."

"And I've got yours. Always," she breathed. He nudged his lips forward until they pressed against hers in a tender, loving kiss.

"You're okay now?" he asked tentatively. She nodded and he let out a relieved breath. "Good, because I'm pretty sure Eamon's going to have a long line of nobles waiting for us when we leave this room, and I have no idea who they all are."

Isabel laughed before planting another deep kiss on his lips, a wordless thank you for being there for her when she needed him most. When she pulled back, she shot him a mischievous grin. "You know, you'll have to learn all their names before your coronation."

He jerked back, eyes wide. "But that's in… in three days!"

"You'll also have to learn how to dance, for the party afterwards. And of course all the proper protocols…"

"Oh, Maker," he groaned. "I'm never going to learn it all in time."

"You underestimate the ability of your teacher," Isabel replied.

"You're going to teach me?" Alistair asked, hope budding in his eyes.

"Eamon's going to insist _someone_ do it… it might as well be me."

"I'm feeling better about this already," he said cheerfully. She rolled her eyes and he kissed her cheek, her heart warming at the gesture. She stepped up to her vanity and wiped away her smeared makeup, quickly applying it again. Alistair offered her his arm, and she looped hers through his. "Ready?"

Isabel took a deep breath, focusing on the positive things Alistair said as opposed to her troubles. She could do this. "Yes, I'm ready," she announced. "Are you?"

"No," he said with a nervous laugh, scratching the back of his neck. "But you're going to fix that soon enough…"

"Let's go," she replied with a giggle. "The sooner we get through the rest of the day, the sooner we can retire to the privacy of your chambers."

"Sounds like a plan," Alistair said with a nod. They went to leave, but Isabel stopped them at the last moment. "Oh no, don't tell me you're backing out now. Because I'm following you if you do."

"No, I'm not backing out," she said softly, staring up into his eyes. "I just wanted to tell you that I love you. More than anything."

"And I, you," he replied, that adoring look of his in his eyes. "Always."

With that, they finally left the room, stepping into the next chapter of their lives… together.


	12. Fork

**Fork**

* * *

Isabel watched as Alistair stared at all the food on the table in front of them. She smiled at his expression, his eyes wide and mouth ajar.

"You know, this whole going-to-be-king thing has it's perks," he started, eyes darting over the different dishes. "How do they still have all this food? Denerim was under siege less than a week ago."

"They barred up the palace. We got to the darkspawn before they could get past the gates."

He glanced over to her, quirking an eyebrow. "Why are we just staring at it?"

Isabel laughed. "Because you can't eat until you've washed your hands."

"Right. I knew that." Two servants brought in bowls filled with water and towels, and Isabel washed her hands, Alistair following her lead. "And why do we need to wash our hands?"

"Besides being clean?" she asked, shooting him a look as the servants left with the bowls and towels.

"I didn't mean it like _that_," he said defensively. "I mean, why like this, in front of everyone?"

"It's proper etiquette, Alistair," Isabel said, taking a sip of her wine. He did what she did, eyeing her while he drank. "You're going to be king, you need to have proper etiquette, and I told Eamon that I would teach you." She picked up her spoon and dipped it into her bowl, scooping up the appropriate amount of soup. "Use your spoon to get the right amount of soup, and then—"

"The _right_ _amount_ of soup?" he asked incredulously. "Don't you just… scoop it up and eat it?" He demonstrated his point, getting a spoonful and blowing on it before slurping it into his mouth. Isabel sighed. This was going to be harder than she thought.

"No, that was all wrong. Observe." Alistair frowned and watched as she brought the spoonful of soup to her mouth, testing its temperature by gently touching it to her lips. When she deemed it wasn't too hot, she ate the soup—without slurping. "You don't fill the spoon up all the way in order to prevent spilling, you don't blow on it, and you _never_ _ever_ slurp it," she said, looking back to him. He looked so upset; she knew he just wanted to fill his plate and scarf down his food, but this was all necessary. "Don't worry, you'll get it… eventually."

They made it through the soup, not without more corrections from Isabel. Servants came to take the bowls away allowing them to fill their plates with the main course. Alistair got right to it, grabbing heaps and heaps of everything and throwing it onto his dish.

"Alistair, portion control," she chided, gesturing to her own plate. All of her food was neatly spread out over the dish, nothing overflowing off the sides like _someone's_ plate.

"Isabel!" he whined. "You know I can eat five times what's in your dish! _You_ eat five times what's in your dish!"

She shook her head. "Not all at once. You can always go back for seconds… and thirds." He sighed and started putting back the food and she brought her hand to her face and shook her head. "You don't put anything back once it's in your plate," she said. Alistair stopped what he was doing and gave her an apologetic smile. She just took a hefty drink of her wine.

Now that they finally had their food in their plates, they could eat. Isabel watched as the king stabbed his fork into his meat, taking his knife and grinding away at it.

"_Maker_, you don't need to cut it like _that_," she said. "It's already dead."

Alistair sighed and put down his fork and knife, glaring at her. "You never had a problem with the way I ate _before_."

"Before we were just two Grey Wardens eating at camp. Now, you're going to be the king, I'm going to be queen, and we're going to be eating in front of other nobles who take this seriously." She let out an exasperated sigh. "Just do it like this."

Isabel demonstrated to him how he should cut his meat, and he obliged, a frown on his handsome face. She bet he wasn't so fond of the perks of being royalty now.

They ate in silence, her commands and corrections the only thing that cut through the tension in the air. It was a long and arduous ordeal, and it felt more like an unpleasant task than a meal with the man she loved. Then again, it _was_ a task…

When they were finally done and everything had been cleared from the table, Isabel looked down at her hands in her lap. Alistair took in a deep breath and sighed, leaning back in his chair.

"Well, I'm glad _that's_ over," he started. "I used to actually _enjoy_ eating…" Isabel snapped her head up and glared at him, and he brought his hands up in a defensive gesture. "I'm sorry, I know you're just trying to help." She sighed, resting her elbows on the table and holding her head in her hands, breaking every etiquette rule there was. She didn't care. She didn't want to hear the word "etiquette" for the next few days… maybe a week. Denerim was still being rebuilt from the darkspawn attack, and Isabel didn't think there were going to be any banquets anytime soon—well, besides his coronation. Alistair still had time to learn the ways of the nobles.

"I'm sorry for pushing you too hard," she mumbled. She turned her head to face him and he shrugged.

"I'm going to have to learn sooner or later." Isabel stood up and stepped next to his chair, turning around and plopping herself on his lap. He grinned at her as he slipped his arms around her waist, hers slinking around his neck.

"Later," she breathed. "I'm done with etiquette for now."

"Obviously," he said, gesturing to her position. Oh, she would show him a proper _lack_ of etiquette. She shot him a wry smile as she teasingly slid her hand up his chest over his shirt.

"How about we go back to the royal bedchambers and have dessert instead?" she whispered in his ear.

"Dessert? _Yes_," his breath hitched when she pressed a kiss to his neck, "dessert is good." Alistair looped his arms underneath her and picked her up as he quickly stood, his chair toppling over behind him. Isabel giggled at his enthusiasm before teasing him as he carried her away. It seemed their meal wasn't going to end as badly as she thought.


	13. All Night Long

**All Night Long**

* * *

The queen's screams echoed throughout the palace, no doubt waking up half of Denerim. Alistair ran to their bedroom, coming upon a group of guards that had already beaten him there. When they noticed his arrival, they parted from the doorway, allowing him to get inside the room. Upon seeing that his wife was in no immediate danger, he relaxed, letting out a sigh of relief.

Isabel was standing on their bed, barefoot and clad only in her nightgown, his sword tightly gripped between her hands. She was hyperventilating, shakily pointing the weapon at her vanity across the room.

"Isabel?" he said softly, cautiously approaching her. "What's wrong, love?"

She tore her panicked gaze away from the vanity and focused on him, blinking back tears. "I was g-going to take d-down my hair and I saw a s-spider crawl on the m-mirror," she stammered, her lower lip trembling.

Alistair kicked off his boots and climbed onto the bed with her, prying the sword out of her hands before she hurt herself. He gestured for the guards to come inside, giving them orders to find the spider before his wife passed out. "We'll find the spider and we'll kill it," he whispered, pulling her into his embrace. She nodded, sniffling, as she buried her face in the crook of his neck, her fingers curling into his shirt as she clung to him.

The guards searched for the spider, but couldn't find it, even when they started pushing around the furniture to check behind it. It had seemingly crawled off to whatever hole it came from, and this did not please Isabel one bit.

"I'm sorry, your Majesties, but the spider has disappeared," one of the guards said, maintaining a safe distance from the queen.

"No!" she whined. "You have to find it!"

"I'm sorry, your Majesty, but I doubt that will be possible," the guard replied.

"You had better make it possible," she snapped, shooting the guard a glare that made him shrink back in fear.

Alistair held her firmly to his side, giving the guards an apologetic look. "The queen thanks you and understands that you have done your best," he said to the guards, dismissing them. When they were gone, he coaxed Isabel off the bed, and she shoved his sword back into his hand, dragging him over to the vanity. Her fingers painfully dug into his forearm as she peeked over the furniture, making sure the spider was really gone.

"Izzy?"

She turned to face him, eyes wide in fear. "What if it comes back while we sleep?" she said, her voice trembling.

"It's not going to come back—"

"You don't know that," she interrupted, stomping back over to plop down on the bed. She huffed, starting to take down her hair, and he sighed, grabbing her brush from the vanity and sitting behind her. He went to brush through her hair, but she looked over her shoulder, leering at him. "Did you make sure the vile little creature isn't on the brush?"

Alistair glared at her and she snorted, turning back around. He brushed through her unruly waves while she stared down the vanity, just waiting for the spider to reappear. When he finished, he changed out of his finery and she sat back on the bed with her arms crossed.

"I'm not going to sleep," Isabel declared. "I can't. I won't. Not until that evil little thing is dead."

"You can't stay awake all night long," Alistair said, blowing out the candles and climbing into bed with her.

"Watch me," she replied, stubbornly holding her head high.

He made himself comfortable, rolling over and tucking the blankets around himself. "I'm going to sleep," he muttered. "I'm tired and we have an early meeting in the morning."

Isabel was quiet longer than he predicted she'd be, until she finally shuffled over to his back. She rested her head over his shoulder, her short, anxious breaths tickling his neck.

"Ali?" she whispered, and he turned towards her, looking up at her expectantly in the dim light. "Please don't go to sleep… not yet."

"I can't stay awake all night, love," he said quietly. "I can try, but I doubt I'd make it half an hour."

"I know, it's just…" she said, sighing. "Will you hold me?"

"Of course." As soon as the words left his mouth, she burrowed into his side, tangling her limbs with his. He held her tight, cocooning her in his warmth and comfort the way he knew she liked. It was then that he felt her shaking, and he pressed a kiss to the top of her head as he tried to soothe her.

Alistair knew her overreaction wasn't about the little spider that had invaded their room. She was already afraid of spiders when he'd met her, and their trip into the Deep Roads only amplified that. He supposed being pounced on, poisoned, and almost eaten by an overgrown, tainted spider would make _anyone_ petrified of spiders—forget about someone who was already terrified of them.

He remembered the aftermath of it all too well; the blood gushing from her wound as she passed out in his arms, how pale and _freezing_ she was from the poison… how he had to warm her up, holding her like he did now, unsure if she was going to survive the night.

He pushed those memories away, instead focusing on the moment he was in now—contently cuddled up with his wife. Being king wasn't exactly where he thought he'd end up, but he had his queen, _his Izzy_… and that made everything worth it.


	14. Interruptions

**Interruptions**

This is the first time I've written anything like this in this amount of detail, so I'm sorry if it kind of sucks

* * *

Isabel entered the royal bedchambers, one of the guards having told her that her husband had retired to the privacy of their chambers to work. She fully intended on helping Alistair with whatever motion or bill he was working on, but her mind shifted gears the moment she heard a soft moan coming from their bedroom. She stopped in her tracks, brows furrowing together—she recognized _that_ sound.

She listened closely as she quietly tiptoed across the sitting room adjacent to their bedroom, making a beeline for the door, another moan ringing through the air. Cracking open the door, she peeked inside, her eyes growing wide at the sight before her.

Alistair was reclined on their bed, stroking himself with one hand, the other fisted in the bedcovers beside him. He tilted his head back, his eyes closed and brows drawn together, a blush on his cheeks, as he moaned her name, his hand speeding up its movements. Isabel inhaled sharply at the sound, because _Maker_, she loved it when he said her name like that.

She bit her lip and continued to watch as Alistair pleasured himself, unable to take her eyes off of him. The way he struggled to keep quiet, the apple of his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard, biting back groan after groan… the beads of sweat forming over his flushed body, one drop tantalizingly dripping down over his partially exposed chest… the jerk of his hips as he thrust into his hand, his chest heaving with quickened breaths, the vein in his neck thumping as his pulse increased… the way he breathed her name over and over, rough, needy, and desperate for release…

It all was _extremely_ enticing, and Isabel quickly found that it was much too warm in their room. Something had to be done about _that_, and she had just the idea.

With a devious grin, she opened the door fully, draping herself seductively against the doorframe.

"I know I was gone for quite a while, but I didn't think it was _that_ long," she said flippantly, grinning even more when Alistair tensed, his body going completely still. He shot his eyes open and met her gaze, blushing even more than he was before—all the way up to the tips of his ears.

"Isabel, I—"

"Started without me, it seems," she interrupted, running her eyes appreciatively over him. He gulped, nervously pulling his hand away from himself and fidgeting before settling both hands at either side of him on the bed. "I knew you did this before we started sleeping together, when I used to rile you up night after night, but I wasn't aware that you still did with the frequency we find ourselves in bed together."

Alistair nervously scratched the back of his head, his eyes darting around the room before landing on hers again. "I was, uh… thinking about you," he murmured.

"I can see that," she replied with a light laugh, pushing herself off the door. Isabel started to advance on him, and he remained on the bed, watching her every move. "You know, now that I'm here, I could help with your… situation… _your Majesty_." She all but purred his title, enjoying the way it made him squirm.

"You don't have to—"

"But I _want_ to, _my king_," she muttered, hiking her dress up as she climbed onto the bed, slowly crawling over him on her hands and knees. "I really, _really_ want to."

"Minx," he growled, his amber gaze flicking down to the décolletage of her dress, the top of her breasts on full display as she hovered over him. Isabel smirked, inching her face closer to his.

"You love it," she breathed before pressing her lips to his in a heated kiss. When they broke for air she latched her lips onto his neck, sliding down his body as she trailed a path of kisses down to his collarbone, over his heaving chest, and down his abdomen, following the line of hair below his navel to her destination.

Alistair watched her like a hawk as she hooked her fingers around the top of his pants and smalls, pulling them down to give herself room to work. Isabel licked her lips at the sight of him and he groaned, the sound bringing a smile to her lips.

"Alistair," she said, looking up and meeting his gaze. "Don't try to be quiet."

He slowly nodded, swallowing hard, amber eyes alight with excitement at what was to come.

With that, Isabel focused back on the task at hand, determined to make her husband scream her name so all of Denerim could hear… and she did… _twice_.

* * *

Isabel pulled out the pins holding her hair into an elaborate bun, one by one, until she was able to shake her raven waves loose in preparation of what was to come. Once finished, she turned her attention back to Alistair, his eyes still watching her as he waited for her to touch him. She flashed him a grin before dipping her head, tracing her tongue over the length of him, from base to tip.

He groaned her name, a strangled, desperate sound that only spurred her on as she fully took him in her mouth, wrapping her hand around what she couldn't fit between her lips. She built him up, slowly, enjoying the way he panted and gasped as she moved, not even trying to remain quiet, just like she had asked. He twisted his hands in her hair, holding her head steady as he bucked into the warmth of her mouth, rapidly approaching his end.

Isabel would have grinned if she didn't have her mouth full.

Alistair bellowed her name as he reached his peak, and she swallowed every last bit of him, licking up what she initially missed. Satisfied with her work, she climbed back up her husband's body, plopping beside him on the bed with a smile as she watched him catch his breath.

"It's so much better to have help, isn't it," she said, beginning to trail her fingers over his chest.

He let out a breathless laugh, nodding as he opened his eyes and met her gaze. "Oh, I love you," he sighed, his hand coming up to caress her face. Isabel smiled softly at him, rolling onto her side so she could press a kiss to his lips. Alistair slid his hand back into her hair as he deepened it, their simple kiss quickly heating up into something more.

When they broke for air, both of them panting, he kicked his pants and smalls off the rest of his legs before quickly shrugging off his shirt and doublet. She bit her lip and watched as he shed his clothes, admiring the strong and muscular body underneath. He returned to her and she squealed as he grabbed her and flipped her over, his fingers going to the ties of her dress.

After some frustrated mumbling, Alistair was able to unlace the bodice of her dress, his lips kissing a path down her spine as he peeled it off of her. She squirmed beneath him, his beard gently scraping her skin, a stark contrast to the feeling of his warm lips, the sensation sending pleasurable tingles throughout her body. When her dress was completely off, he rolled her back over, amber eyes raking over her bare body until they landed on her smalls.

"You know, love, I wouldn't have put it past you to have been completely naked under that dress," he said, settling over her, his lips finding her neck. Isabel threaded her hand through his hair and giggled, her laugh turning into a moan as he nibbled on her collarbone, her body arching up against his.

"I'll remember that for next time," she breathed, eyes fluttering closed as her husband continued kissing his way down her body. She bit back another moan as he took the peak of her breast into his mouth, his lips and tongue doing the most wonderful things as he teased her other breast with his hand. Isabel pressed herself into the heat of his mouth, her fingers digging into his skin as she grasped him.

When Alistair was thoroughly pleased with the way he worked her up, he kept traveling downward, her stomach quivering as he kissed lower and lower. She watched through half-lidded eyes as he pulled her smalls off, theatrically tossing them across the room. She huffed a laugh, shaking her head and rolling her eyes at the gesture.

He settled onto his stomach, hooking her legs over his shoulders as she closed her eyes and gently ran her fingers through his hair. Isabel squirmed in anticipation as he pressed tender kisses to the inside of her thigh, slowly, _torturously_, kissing upwards towards his final destination.

"Alistair, don't you dare tease me," she breathed, her fingers tightening in his hair, resisting the urge to just _shove_ his face where she wanted it—it wouldn't be the first time she'd done such a thing.

She felt him smile against her skin before pulling away the slightest bit. She shot her eyes open and lifted her head, ready to demand he get back to what he was doing, but she froze as soon as she saw him. His eyes _burned_ into hers, and the sight of him looking at her like _that_ from_between her legs_ set her skin aflame with even more arousal.

"I wouldn't dream of it, love," he murmured, voice husky, before ducking his head and finally pressing his mouth against her.

She moaned his name, unable to keep quiet at the feeling of his tongue and lips moving over her, his fingers soon following. She writhed against him, grinding her hips into his face, her fingers fisting into his hair to keep him there, her other hand twisted in the bed sheets beside her. He worked her into a desperate, mewling frenzy, taking his time to build her up, but never giving her enough to reach her peak.

She was so close, _so close_, and it felt like her skin was on fire, heat coiling in the pit of her stomach. He brought her to the edge and she tumbled over it, her whole body tensing and shuddering as pleasure radiated through her, his name on her lips. Alistair's movements slowly came to a stop, and he planted a gentle kiss to her inner thigh before unhooking her legs from his shoulders and sitting upright.

Isabel fluttered her eyes open, looking past her heaving chest to see him wipe his mouth on the back of his arm. She made a weak little noise at the sight of him, and once again he met her gaze. He lifted his fingers to his mouth, very deliberately licking and sucking them clean, and she watched every movement, swallowing hard. The tables had been effectively turned on her and she _loved_ every minute of it.

"Come here, _now_," she said, and he did as he was told, climbing back up to her and latching his lips onto hers. Maker, she could taste herself on him, and that only re-ignited the intense need she had for him—and all hail Andraste for their Grey Warden stamina, because he was standing at full attention once again. Growling into the kiss, she rolled them over and pinned his wrists to the bed on either side of his head. She trailed her kisses over his jaw and down his neck, then back up again, nibbling on his earlobe. "Sit up," she whispered, teasingly tracing her tongue over the shell of his ear.

She released her grip on him, Alistair sitting up, and as soon as he was ready she climbed over him, straddling his thighs and grabbing his shoulders for support. Isabel bit her lip and gasped, her eyes falling closed as she sank down onto him in one fluid motion. He hissed, his eyes shut tight, fingers digging into her hips hard enough to bruise.

She leaned forward and rested her forehead against his, rolling her hips over his and ripping a loud groan from his throat. A cacophony of moans and grunts filled the room as she began to move atop him, his hips snapping up to meet hers over and over. It wasn't long until they were dangling on the precipice, both so close to the edge.

Alistair lost it first, his face contorting with pleasure as her name left his lips a final time, the sight, sound, and feel of him tumbling over the edge dragging her right along with him. Isabel cried out as she tensed around him, her body trembling as her own pleasure radiated out through her body from her core.

They collapsed into a panting, sweaty heap of tangled limbs, completely spent. Isabel shifted the slightest bit so she could lie on his chest, and Alistair wrapped his arms around her, gently stroking her back as their heartbeats returned to normal.

"Mmm, that was nice," she murmured, nestling into the warmth of his embrace. "That was very, very nice."

"Thanks for the assistance, love," he said with a chuckle, the sound rumbling in his chest.

She snorted a laugh. "You're very welcome, _your Majesty_."

Alistair groaned, and she giggled. "You have to stop saying it like _that_."

"Never." She propped her head up on his chest, her eyes landing on his. "It'll give you something to think about the next time you… tend to your needs," she said with a mischievous grin, and he shook his head, rolling his eyes.

"I'm ever going to hear the end of this, am I?"

"Nope."

He sighed, bringing his hand up to caress her face. "You are an evil, evil woman," he said as she leaned into his touch. "But I still love you, nonetheless."

Isabel grinned at him, her heart warming at his words. "I love you, too."


	15. Making a Statement

**Making a Statement**

* * *

_There isn't enough time._

That was his wife's reasoning as to why she dragged him into a random storage closet just outside the throne room instead of their bedroom. Alistair didn't argue with her; she'd been in a foul mood ever since Eamon had interrupted their breakfast, not so-subtly shifting their topic of conversation towards the lack of a royal heir. When he first started bringing it up, it didn't bother her, and she'd come back with a witty retort about how they were having fun trying to produce an heir night after night.

But, after a while, it wore on her. She stopped making jokes, and if she didn't feel horrible about herself, she'd just get angry at Eamon for bringing it up _again_—as if they wouldn't run through the palace jumping for joy when—_if_—it actually happened. Isabel had put on a pleasant face for Eamon and their subjects while they held court, but Alistair knew her well enough to see past her mask. She was simmering with anger inside, and if letting her drag him into a closet and have her wicked way with him would make her feel better, he'd gladly comply.

Besides, he rather enjoyed their illicit trysts.

When they finished, Isabel let out a contented sigh, nuzzling her face against his neck as he held her close. Alistair allowed himself a smug smile of satisfaction at his wife's change in mood.

"We have to get to the council meeting," she muttered, pressing light kisses to his neck.

He groaned in protest. "I don't want to move."

Isabel snorted a laugh, gently nibbling on his earlobe. "We have to. If we don't show up, Eamon will send the guards to look for us, and you wouldn't want them to find us in such a state, would you?"

"No," he said with a sigh. They disentangled themselves from each other, both fumbling around in the dark closet for their missing clothes. Once everything was back where it was supposed to be, they snuck out of the closet, back into the hallway. Isabel giggled when she saw him, running her fingers through his disheveled hair to rearrange it properly. He did the same to her, tucking stray waves back where they belonged, until they both looked as they did before they found themselves in that closet.  
Well, _almost_ like they did before.

"Um… love?" Alistair started, nervously scratching the back of his head.

"Yes?" she asked, looking up from smoothing out the skirt of her dress.

"You've… got a… blemish…"

Understanding what he was getting at, Isabel grinned mischievously at him. "Where exactly is this… blemish?" He reached out and lightly ran his thumb over the small bruise on the side of her neck, her smile growing wider. "Ooh, that's going to be visible," she said, brushing her hair back like she _wanted_ it to be seen. "Don't worry about it."

"But the meeting—"

"Let them all see it," she interrupted. "It's proof that we're working hard on making that baby they all want to much." Despite the lingering bitterness in her voice, she didn't seem to be getting angry again. In fact she seemed… disappointed? "I only wish I'd made yours just as noticeable," she continued, tugging the collar of his shirt down to reveal his own little love bite. Alistair felt his cheeks heating up, and Isabel shrugged, letting out a sigh. "Oh, well, old habits die hard, I guess." She took his hand and started leading him towards the meeting chamber, his free hand self-consciously making sure his collar was as high as it could get.

When they arrived, Eamon shot them a displeased look that Isabel ignored, holding her head up high as she walked over to her seat. Alistair pulled it out for her and she gracefully sat down before he pushed her in. He sat right by her side, everyone else sitting with him.

"The king and I are sorry to keep you waiting, my lords, we were discussing important business," she said, using the voice he liked to call her "people voice."

Eamon raised an eyebrow at her, his gaze darting down to her neck before returning to her eyes. _Oh, Maker…_ "Anything you would care to share with the rest of us, your Majesty?" he asked, knowing full well she and Alistair hadn't been _discussing_ anything.

Isabel smiled, addressing the members of the council. "Yes, Chancellor, it _is_ something I would like to share," she started. "The king and I are concerned about the reluctance of some members of the human community to accept the new Bann of the Alienage…"

The queen argued her point, with input from Alistair, until the members of the council started to see her way on the issue. She was very good at manipulating the nobles into getting what she wanted. He would have been content to just sit there and watch her work her magic if he didn't have participate himself.

As the meeting continued, some of the other nobles started to notice the bruise on her neck, giving her curious looks while whispering to each other like a flock of gossiping hags. Alistair knew she didn't usually mind hushed conversation about such things, but he could see she was starting to get annoyed by it, and he didn't blame her. She was discussing serious problems Ferelden had to overcome—something their advisors and councilors should have been paying close attention to.

"Lord Dalison, is something the matter?" Isabel called out, the man in question stiffening in his seat. He slowly turned to face her, his gaze not meeting her eyes as he addressed her.

"No, your Majesty."

"Is that so? I could have sworn something drastic must have happened based on the way you and Lord Alington were chattering about." The other man looked just as uncomfortable as Lord Dalison.

"I'm sorry, your Majesty, it's just…" The man struggled for words, and Alistair noticed a mischievous glint in his wife's eyes. She was up to something. Normally he loved when she put the nobles in their place, but considering what had started all this… he was afraid of what she had up her sleeve.

"It's just what? You may speak plainly with me, my lord," she prompted, looking the perfect picture of innocence.

"There is… something on your neck…"

Alistair tensed beside her, swallowing hard. _Oh, Maker have mercy…_

"Oh, that," she said, waving her hand dismissively. "That was the result of an accident, don't mind it."

"An accident?" Lord Dalison asked, a puzzled expression on his face.

"You see, the king and I may have gotten just a bit carried away when we were performing our duty to Ferelden earlier," Isabel continued, and Alistair felt his cheeks beginning to burn. Beside him, Eamon sighed, shaking his head, the other nobles' eyebrows shooting up to their hairlines.

"Your… duty?" one of them asked, and he didn't miss the tiny quirk of his wife's lips._Andraste's flaming sword, she wouldn't…_

"Yes," she began, thinly veiling the hostility in her voice. "We've been very diligent in trying to produce that royal heir you're all so concerned about."

The nobles gasped, absolutely appalled, and Alistair slouched in his seat, wishing he were anywhere but in that room. Isabel, on the other hand… she reveled in their reactions.

"Your Majesty!" one of the nobles exclaimed, shooting up from his seat. "I hardly think it's appropriate to speak of such things in this manner!"

She fixed the man with a dangerous glare, and he immediately sat back down. "And I hardly think it's appropriate to be constantly berated with inquiries on whether the king and I have conceived a child yet." She glanced towards Eamon before returning her gaze to the other man. "But, I still seem to be getting that question a lot as of late," she continued. "When I say the king and I are trying, I expect you to take me at my word. Trust me, you will all know when we succeed in producing an heir. Until then, I kindly ask you to keep your inquiries and comments to yourself."

The nobles nodded their agreement, and Alistair sat up a little straighter in his seat, his embarrassment passing. He was impressed; he shouldn't have been, since Isabel had a knack for this sort of thing, but he was. And he was proud of her for taking care of their problem in such a diplomatic way. Knowing her, that entire exchange could have gone down a completely different road that would have resulted in him hiding under the table as red as a tomato, but thankfully, it didn't.

Eamon cleared his throat, drawing everyone's attention to him. "We will take your request under advisement, your Majesty," he said.

"Very good," she said, pleased. Alistair laced his fingers with hers under the table, and she turned to him, smiling. He smiled back, which only made her grin more, until she took a deep breath and tore her gaze from his, focusing back on the task at hand. "In that case, shall we get back to business?"

…

Not a week later, after Eamon brought up the issue of the royal heir _again_, the King and Queen of Ferelden walked into their council meeting brandishing matching love bites on display for all to see. Naturally, the Chancellor didn't utter a word about the royal heir for weeks after that.

Alistair's wife may have been a devious woman, but she sure knew how to get things done.


	16. Doubts

**Doubts**

* * *

It was that time of the day. Isabel's handmaiden helped her waddle back to the royal bedchambers, leaving Alistair to finish up business with their advisors and councilors for the day. With help, she changed into the loose shift she wore to bed, ready to relax for the night. She made sure she used the chamber pot, because Maker knows she would have to go within minutes of getting comfortable. Once everything was taken care of, her handmaiden helped her into bed, propping up pillows until she was comfortable—as comfortable as she was going to get in such a state.

Her husband arrived shortly after, a grin on his face at the sight of her.

"And how is my beautiful wife?" he asked cheerily, and she rolled her eyes at him. She was_huge_, not beautiful, and she was only going to grow larger over the next couple of months. Maker help her.

"I'm tired," she muttered. "And my back hurts from carrying around this baby all day."

"I'm sorry, love," he replied coming over to kneel beside the bed. "Speaking of the little prince or princess… how are you?" He spoke directly to her belly, his hand softly moving over her baby bump. "Are you giving your mother a hard time?"

Isabel snorted, unable to suppress a smile at the sight before her. Alistair already loved their baby so much; he'd loved it fiercely since the day Wynne confirmed she was pregnant. He was constantly fawning over her, and he'd been talking to her belly since before there was even a bump. Sometimes she thought she loved it more than her.

He planted a kiss to her stomach and then to her forehead, before quickly changing out of his finery. He hopped into bed with her, propping his head up right near her belly. He grabbed the fabric of her shift, silently asking if he could move it away, and she nodded, a small smile on her lips. He grinned back and carefully lifted her shift until he exposed her baby bump, resting his free hand atop it, his thumb gently stroking her skin.

Alistair started telling the baby about their day, and how one day he or she would be stuck in meetings and holding court. It warmed Isabel's heart to see him like this, a spark of excitement in his amber eyes as he spoke to their unborn child. She cherished every one of these moments, and couldn't wait to see the look in his eyes the first time he held their child in his arms.

"I'm going to teach you to use a sword," Alistair declared. "And if you can't learn that, then your mother will teach you how to use a bow." He met her gaze, his lips curled into a lopsided grin. "She can take out five men all by herself, without even having to loose an arrow."

Isabel snorted. "Five seems a little excessive."

"Don't listen to her," he said, focusing back on her belly, and she shook her head. The hand softly running over her skin stopped, Alistair's brow furrowing. "What if I _can't_ teach him to use a sword?"

"Then I'll teach him to shoot," she replied warily, noting how he suddenly tensed beside her.

"No, it's not that." He shook his head, pulling his hand from her stomach. "What if… what if I can't teach him to do _anything_?" He sat up, wide eyes meeting hers, and she could see that he was terrified. "Maker, what if I'm a bad father?"

"Alistair, you will be a great father."

"I doubt that," he said with a nervous laugh, scratching the back of his head. "I don't know what it's like to _have_ a father. How am I supposed to _be_ one?"

"And you think that I know how to be a mother just because I had my parents growing up?" She reached for his hand, taking it and placing it back on her stomach, lacing their fingers together. "I spend my days worrying about how fat I'm going to get because of this baby. That's not very motherly of me."

Alistair let out a short laugh. "You're not fat."

"Oh, Maker, you really are blinded by love." He shook his head and she gestured for him to lie back with her, and he did, their conjoined hands still resting on her round stomach. "I've seen you with children, you're a natural," Isabel said, holding his gaze. She smiled softly at him, brushing the back of her fingers down his face. "You are such a good man. You're strong, honorable, loyal, funny… and you have such a big heart. All of this is going to make you a fantastic father."

"You really mean that?" he whispered, hope in his eyes.

"Yes," she replied softly.

"I've always wanted a family, you know that," he murmured. "This is going to be our only chance… I don't want to make a mess of it."

"You won't. And if you do, we'll mess it up together." Isabel sighed, smiling wryly at him. "We killed an archdemon and stopped a Blight. One baby isn't going to take us down."

Alistair chuckled. "You say that now. Just wait until the baby's throwing up on you." She grimaced, and he just laughed at her more. She smacked him and shoved his hand away from her. "Oh, come on, Izzy!"

"Don't touch me," she muttered, shooting him a glare. He didn't listen and leaned over her, pressing a tender kiss to her lips.

"Thank you," he said quietly, quirking his lips up into that lopsided smile that made her heart melt. She tried to stay annoyed with him but he was making that very difficult with that smile and those puppy-dog eyes of his. "I love you." His eyes drifted down to her stomach. "Both of you"

"We love you, too," she grumbled, failing to hide a smile. "Now rub my feet."

"Yes, my queen," he said with a laugh. He went to scoot down to the foot of the bed, and she suddenly felt fluttering in her stomach. Isabel quickly grabbed his wrist and brought his hand to her belly. Alistair gasped when he felt the baby moving around, the biggest grin lighting up his face. "Maker, that will never get old," he breathed.

Alistair settled down beside her, pulling her into his arms as he pressed his chest to her back. He buried his face in the crook of her neck as he held her stomach, humming the lullaby that she'd taught him—the same one her mother used to sing when she was a little girl. Between her exhaustion, the comfort of his embrace, and the soothing sound of his voice, Isabel soon drifted off to sleep, happy and content.


	17. Presents and Puppy-Dog Eyes

**Presents and Puppy-Dog Eyes**

This features Isabel and Alistair's son, set a few years or so after the Blight.

* * *

Isabel heard the pitter-patter of tiny feet running down the hallway, and she smiled to herself at the sound. Moments later, little Duncan appeared in the doorway, his hair more unkempt than usual, fancy clothes disheveled and covered in dirt. He pointed at her while looking down the hallway, a set of heavier footsteps quickly approaching.

"You found her!" Alistair shouted as he stepped up behind Duncan. He was in a similar state as their son, garments disarrayed and dirty, short hair sticking out in all directions. She just stared at the two of them with wide eyes, completely shocked at their appearances.

"Mama!" Duncan said, coming up to her with a smile.

"Hello, dearest," she replied. "What happened to you and your father?"

"Duncan wanted to give you a present," her husband said, her gaze drawn to his hands behind his back, likely concealing the gift.

"And did obtaining this present involve rolling around in mud?" she asked, shooting him a glare.

Alistair shot her an apologetic smile, pulling a bouquet of roses from behind his back. "We had some trouble picking them."

Isabel's expression softened, a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips. He went to hand her the flowers when Duncan started tugging on his pants.

"No! Me!" the toddler demanded, and Alistair gave him the flowers with a light chuckle. He excitedly held them up for her, and she kneeled down in front of him, taking the roses. "You like?" he asked, his hazel eyes big and round while he waited for an answer.

Isabel affectionately smiled at her son, cradling the flowers against her chest. "Yes, I like them very much. Thank you, Duncan."

"You welcome!" he said with a pleased little grin. She let out a light laugh, running her fingers though the tangled mop of unruly waves on his head. She pressed a kiss to his forehead before holding her hand out for her husband who helped her up off her knees. She flattened out the skirt of her dress before fixing Duncan with a serious stare.

"We need to get you cleaned up, my little prince," she started, and he whined, wrapping his arms around his father's leg.

"No! Dada said we could play with the puppies," he protested.

"Your father seems to have forgotten that we're receiving the Arl of West Hills and his family today."

"Right," Alistair drawled.

"No! Dada promised!" Duncan started to sniffle, on the verge of a tantrum, and Isabel shot the king a look that read _clean up your mess_.

"Mama's right," Alistair said, lifting their son into his arms. "We can play with the puppies later." He flashed Isabel a quick grin before focusing on their son again. "Unless the Arl's children want to play with the puppies, too…"

"I don't think that's the best idea," she interjected, but it was too late. Duncan's face had already lit up with excitement.

"Yes, it is, right, Duncan?"

"Yes, yes, yes!" he said excitedly, bouncing up and down in his father's arms. The queen shook her head and rolled her eyes, giving Alistair a disapproving look.

"Come ooon, pretty pleeaase," he begged, turning those puppy-dog eyes of his on her.

"Please, Mama, please!" Duncan echoed, giving her the same look. _Maker_, that look would be the death of her.

"All right," she said, surrendering to them. "But you need to get cleaned up right now. _Both_ of you."

With a victorious grin, Alistair hoisted Duncan up over his shoulder and marched away, the toddler's giggles echoing throughout the hallway. Isabel followed behind them, unable to conceal a smile at the sight of her two boys enjoying themselves.

Alistair handed off Duncan to his nanny who ushered the boy into his room to change and get cleaned up. Isabel grabbed her husband's hand and dragged him back to their room, ordering him to take off his clothes. She placed the roses in an empty vase and then found him something new to wear. She tossed the clothes at him, sitting on the edge of the bed as she watched him change.

"You're so good with him," she said with a sigh, appreciatively eyeing his muscular torso before he pulled on his clean shirt. "I like watching you two together. It's… heartwarming."

"Really?" he asked, pausing to meet her gaze with a lopsided smile.

"Yes." She gestured for him to hurry up and he obliged. "It's also very, oh, how do I put it—enticing."

Alistair froze, arching an eyebrow as he turned to face her. "_Enticing_?" Isabel slowly nodded as she stood, her lips curling into a mischievous grin. He stepped up to her, his gaze dropping to her lips before finding her eyes. "Just _how_ enticing?"

"Enticing enough that I want to shoo Duncan away with his nanny and rip your clothes off."

"Oh," he huffed, momentarily stunned at her direct answer.

"Mhm," she continued, moving closer to him, shooting him a sultry look. "If we had the time, I would have my wicked way with you, _your Majesty_." She all but purred his title, and Alistair swallowed hard, wrapping his arms around her waist and tugging her close.

"We still have time," he said, his voice husky. He leaned in for a kiss, but Isabel stopped him, pressing her finger to his lips.

"No, we don't." She pulled her finger away and started to fix his ruffled hair while he blankly blinked at her, registering her rejection. She finished brushing her fingers through his hair, and as if on cue, a knock sounded at the door.

"Your Majesties, the prince is ready," Duncan's nanny called out. "And the Arl has arrived."

"Perfect timing," Isabel chirped as she slid out of Alistair's grasp to answer the door. The poor king was frowning, and she had to suppress an amused grin at his expense. She told Duncan to wait just a moment, and she returned to her husband, standing up on the tips of her toes and bringing her lips to his ear. In a low whisper she described all the naughty little things she'd have done if they weren't needed elsewhere. By the time she finished, a beautiful, crimson blush had crept onto the king's face, all the way up to his ears. "It'll just have to wait for tonight," she mused, and he gulped, nodding in agreement.

Satisfied with his reaction she walked over to Duncan, the toddler lifting his hands up and jumping up and down.

"Up! Up!"

Isabel clicked her tongue against her teeth in a _tsk_ of disapproval. "Little princes greet their guests on their own two feet," she said, holding out her hand. The toddler took it with his own tiny, chubby hand, and the queen led him towards the throne room. She shot Alistair a smirk over her shoulder, his burning gaze meeting hers. "Come, husband, we have guests to greet."


	18. Art of War

**Art of War**

Drabble request: Our Muses are being dragged into war but, my muse gets injured and sent home. Once the war finishes, your muse doesn't return.

This is sort of an AU for after the Blight.

* * *

She knew war with Orlais was inevitable. The Blight had greatly weakened Ferelden, and it was ripe for the picking. Orlais had every intention of reclaiming its lost province, legions of its chevaliers marching towards the border.

As soon as they had heard there was to be a war, the palace erupted into a frenzy. The armies were rallied, and as king, Alistair was expected to lead them. Despite protests from their advisors, Isabel had every intention of being by his side. They would fight this war together, just as they had the Blight.

…

She remembered the stories her father told her and Fergus as children about what war was like, but the stories weren't anything like the reality. In the stories, they may have lost some battles, but in the end they won the war. In reality, there was a very good chance they could lose more than just some battles. They could lose the war, lose Ferelden… and lose their heads right along with their country.

They fought for themselves, for each other, and for their people, but just because they were the king and queen, they weren't invulnerable like in the fairytales. They were very much mortal, and they were reminded of that when Isabel was gravely injured in battle.

It wasn't her first near-death experience; there had been plenty for both her and Alistair during the Blight. One would think they would be used to death looming over their heads, but there was something about seeing the person you loved in danger that evoked the same helpless, frightful, and panicked reaction from them every time. And this time was no different.

Once Alistair was assured that she would survive her injuries, he insisted she return to Denerim, where it was safe. Their advisors had been pestering them constantly about having her return to the capitol, in case something should happen to him… _someone_needed to be left to rule the country. Her near-death experience made him agree with their advice, and he pleaded with her to return home.

He said he was scared of losing her, especially since she was already injured, and she could see his fear etched into every line of his face. She knew it would be safer, and she had no intention of dying, but what about him? She was supposed to leave him, just like that? What if something happened to _him_? Isabel knew his personal guards were capable enough, but they weren't _her_.

She didn't want to leave, but she agreed, for his sake, and _for the good of Ferelden_. After an emotional and reluctant goodbye, she was shipped back to Denerim, to heal and await the outcome of the war._  
_

…

Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, and the war still raged on. Isabel was a nervous wreck, constantly waiting for updates from the battlefield informing her of her husband's safety. She had never been apart from him for so long under such circumstances, and it was driving her _mad._

Damn the war, damn the Crown, damn it all! She just wanted to run away with him where they could be safe and happy. Alistair would never do such a thing, for he was too honorable and would always do his duty to his country. As should she… after all, it was _f__or the good of Ferelden_.

She threw herself into her role as queen, and kept things in the capitol running for when the war would end and her king would finally return home. It distracted her from her almost frantic, constant state of worrying, but there was still always a small amount of unease settled in the back of her mind. She got used to the days away from her husband, but she still longed for the day he returned home.

…

Isabel knew something had happened when Fergus arrived at the palace. She went to greet him excitedly, because if he had returned to Denerim, the war must have been over, and Alistair would be returning soon as well. One look at the dejected expression on her brother's face had her stopping in her tracks, swallowing hard. Something was wrong.

When he reached her, he grabbed her arms, to steady her or himself, she wasn't sure, and looked into her eyes, slowly shaking his head. She pulled back from him, her breaths coming faster, dread creeping up her spine.

"Isabel," Fergus started, clearly anxious. "I'm sorry… Alistair… he…"

"No," she said, almost shouting. She shook her head, her throat tightening and her chest constricting. This couldn't be happening, it _couldn't_—

"He's dead."

As soon as the words left his mouth, her world crumbled down around her. She couldn't breathe, she was going to throw up, she could barely remain standing… Overcome with grief, she collapsed against her brother, and he held her against his chest as she sobbed and wailed, unable to process anything.

He couldn't be dead! Not after all they had been through together! They had made it through so much, the Blight, ruling Ferelden… this couldn't be it…

Isabel had cheated death so many times, and now it had taken her husband, the man she loved with the entirety of her being. The man she would never see again. She would sleep alone the rest of her life, never to wake up to a warm, comforting embrace again. Never again would he brush her hair, tenderly working the brush through her unruly waves, peppering her shoulders and neck with little kisses when he was done. Never again could she joke with him, tease him and make him blush until his ears were red. Never again would she hear him tell her he loved her, and she could never say it back.

_Alistair was dead_. Her Alistair was dead. He was _gone_.

…

Isabel was numb. She could barely make it through the day without help because she was so paralyzed. She heard the whispers through the palace, that the queen had lost her mind, that she'd had a mental break, and she didn't care. She didn't _care_.

She was back to when her family was slaughtered, shuffling along with no purpose, too dead to the world to do much of anything else. Back then, Alistair had given her a purpose. He helped her through her pain and she through his, and together they stopped the Blight. But he wasn't here now… he was dead.

She wondered if this is what Anora felt like after Cailan had died in battle. In reality it didn't matter, because Anora kept doing her duties as queen, while Isabel only sat in mourning. She should have let Anora keep the throne, then she could have dealt with the war, and her and Alistair could have been off somewhere together, happy and alive.

But, no… Isabel had to go and put Alistair on the throne to prevent Anora from executing him, as if she couldn't convince her to let him live. She'd made so many decisions, during the Blight and afterwards, that were solely to keep him safe, no matter the cost. She'd always believed her choices were _for the good of Ferelden_. The one time she acted _for the good of Ferelden_ and left her husband on the battlefield, he'd ended up dead.

It was ironic, really. She'd done this to herself. She'd put him on the throne to save his life, and in the end, that's what got him killed. _For the good of Ferelden_.

Ferelden could burn for all she cared. The Orlesians were going to win the war, anyway, and when they came they'd kill her, like they killed her king. Maybe then she would finally be with him again.


	19. Dare to Dance

**Dare to Dance**

Based on an AU where the Warden and their companions have to infiltrate a dance party.

* * *

Alistair tugged on the collar of his shirt, feeling as if the damned thing was choking him. He hated everything about his outfit, the itchy mask, the fancy shirt with its ridiculously puffy sleeves, and the trousers that hugged him the wrong way and made him walk funny. He would much rather be in his armor, at camp, not at this stupid masquerade with snobby nobles who would probably arrest or kill him if they found out he was a Grey Warden.

Why was he doing this again? Oh, right… because of _her_.

He hadn't been paying much attention to the three rogues when they started planning the infiltration of this _wonderful_ event. He knew Isabel was excited to finally get out of her armor and into a dress. While he would have wanted to stay by her side (and to see her in a dress, of course), he had no interest whatsoever in going to the party. Strap him up in armor, give him a sword, and send him at darkspawn and he'd do great. Send him to a fancy party? No, no, no… bad things would happen.

But then Zevran had started flirting with her, talking about how much he was going to enjoy dancing with her to blend in with the other partygoers, and his mood had turned sour.

Blend in? _Blend in?_ The elf just wanted an excuse to get his assassin-y hands all over her. The thought of the two of them dancing, Isabel pressed up against him, hissneaky little hands moving to where they shouldn't be… it made him jealous, to say the least. If anyone was going to dance with her, it was going to be _him_—despite the fact that he couldn't dance. That was another issue entirely.

Being the _brilliant_ man he was, Alistair protested their plan and got roped into going to the party himself. It was mostly Isabel's doing, as if she _wanted_ to see him make a complete fool of himself. He never should have opened his mouth.

"Alistair?" At the sound of her voice, he turned around, his jaw dropping when he saw her. Her raven hair wasn't pulled up into the bun she usually wore, and instead it was loose, the waves framing her masked face. Her lips were painted red, and it made him want to kiss them more than he already wanted to. And the dress—it should have been against the law for her to wear something like that. The purple gown fit her _perfectly_, bringing out her green eyes and accentuating every flawless curve of her body.

Maker's breath, she was beautiful.

He was doomed.

"Alistair?" she repeated again, seemingly nervous. Why was _she_ nervous? She grew up going to parties like this. _He_ was the one who had no idea what he was doing.

He promptly shut his mouth and stopped staring—_good job, Alistair, she probably thinks you're a dirty lecher_. "Isabel," he said, sticking to the simplicity of her name, afraid he'd say something stupid.

"Well?" she asked expectantly. "What do you think?"

"About what?"

"My dress!"

"Oh, right," he muttered, nervously scratching the back of his head. "Well, it's purple—a nice purple, too—and I like the little fancy pattern it's got there. It looks more comfortable than my clothes, and…" He stopped talking when he saw her bite her lip, suppressing a laugh.

"You've obviously never worn a dress if you think I'm more comfortable than you."

"No, I've never worn a dress."

"But still… this is much better than wandering around Ferelden in armor," she said cheerfully. Isabel grabbed his hand and started to pull him towards the ballroom where the rest of the guests were. "We have work to do, so let's get to that blending in and start dancing."

He swallowed hard, stopping before they got to the ballroom. "About that…"

"What?" she asked, turning around and quirking an eyebrow at him.

"I… I can't dance."

"Just follow my lead," she said with a stunning smile, dragging him out into the middle of the ballroom. She stepped up to him, taking his hand and placing it on the small of her back, her other hand linking with his. _Maker_, she was so close he could smell the soap she'd used when she bathed before getting ready. Thankfully she started moving before he could really think about her taking a bath, and it forced him to focus on not stepping on her toes.

Which he failed miserably at.

Thankfully, Isabel was used to it, or so she said. After a lot of squished toes and muttered apologies he got the hang of the whole dancing thing. He wasn't very good at it, but at least he wasn't crushing her feet anymore.

"I told you that you'd be able to do it," she said, a small smile on her lips as they twirled around.

"Only because I have a good teacher," he replied, his voice soft. Isabel let out a short laugh and then bit her lip, her expression changing. She looked at him like she did when they were alone, those brilliant eyes gazing right into his. He stared back, unable to look away even if he wanted to.

"You're staring again," she breathed.

"I'm sorry," he muttered. He quickly looked away, wishing he could just disappear.

"Don't be." Her voice was so low that he was surprised he'd heard her over his inner turmoil. He looked back at her, his eyes wide as he processed what her words meant. "You can stare at me whenever you like," she continued. "Though, it would be nice if you'd do more than just stare. You know—"

Alistair didn't let her finish, instead stopping their dance and closing the distance between them, pressing his lips to hers. She was surprised at first, but quickly kissed him back, and_Maker_, it was every bit as satisfying as he'd dreamed. He pulled back and met her gaze, his cheeks starting to burn at his sudden boldness.

"That… that wasn't too soon was it?" he whispered, and she grinned at him.

"_Too soon?_" She laughed. "Maker, Alistair, I've been waiting _forever_ for you to do that!"

"Forever?"

"_Yes_," she breathed, pressing her lips to his again. He curled his arm around her and pulled her closer, completely forgetting they were standing in the middle of a ballroom filled with guests. When they broke apart Isabel let out a content sigh. She disentangled herself from him, lacing her fingers with his before starting to drag him around again.

"Where are we going?" he asked, slightly confused.

"There should be a storage closet around here somewhere," she muttered, leading him into the hallway outside of the ballroom.

"A _storage closet_?"

She stopped in front of a door and whirled around to face him, shooting him a wry smile. "Yes, a storage closet," she said. "Leliana and Zevran can handle things on their own. _We_ have some kissing to catch up on."

She pulled him into the closet and ripped their masks off, her lips finding his in the dark. Maybe fancy parties weren't so bad after all.


End file.
